

Unlucky Stiff

Yvonne Morrin

© 2012 by Yvonne Morrin.

Smashwords Edition.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

About the Author

Publishing Information

For Hamish, my dweeb.

# Chapter One

Sam Shore was tottering giddily down the street. An expensive mix of scotch whiskey and champagne had been sloshing around his almost empty stomach for a few hours and now his heart was joining in the party, pumping the alcohol via his bloodstream to his brain. The motor control and behavior inhibition centers of his brain thought this was just dandy.

In consequence, Sam smiled stupidly at the people he passed as he staggered down the street, not noticing as they swerved to avoid him, and not caring that none of them smiled back. Sam felt invincible. Yes, after months of submissions and endless rejections he had finally found an agent, and now his agent had at last sold Sam's screenplay. So Sam had gone out celebrating. He didn't know anyone in town yet, but hell, he deserved a bit of a binge.

Now, as he reeled along the crazy-paving path to his apartment, the giddy-feeling was starting to wear off. He was teetering on the brink between happy-go-lucky-drunk and throwing-up-in-the-bushes-drunk. Perhaps he shouldn't have stopped off at that last bar, he thought. Oh, but its name had called to him. The Shakespeare Inn! And wasn't Shakespeare a scriptwriter, just like Sam? Of course he'd had to go in and have a drink to toast old Will's memory.

One drink had turned into three, and he vaguely remembered having a long rambling conversation with a very creepy looking guy, about – he thought for a moment – nope, it was gone. The next he'd remembered, he was outside on the street again, stumbling home. Now Sam lurched down the steps leading to his apartment in the basement of an old house. He pulled his keys out of his pocket. The door's lock swam in his vision. Which key was it? Oh yeah. He inserted the key into the lock, and turned it, feeling the internal mechanism unlatch. He gave the door a gentle push, and was surprised when nothing happened. He pushed again. The door was stuck. That hadn't happened before. Still, he had only lived in the apartment for a few weeks. He didn't know all its quirks yet. Maybe the recent rains had caused the door to swell and stick. Shrugging, Sam gave the door a sharp kick.

The whiskey-fuelled kick did not cause the door to fly open, as Sam had hoped, but it did impart a significant amount of energy into it. It rattled. The energy traveled up through the doorframe, into the stucco wall of the house, up past Mr. Johnson's apartment, to the Sanchez's wrought iron balcony above. There, the vibrations traveled across the mesh floor of the balcony until they struck Mrs. Sanchez's favorite scarlet geranium in its heavy terracotta pot. The last time Mrs. Sanchez had tended the geranium, crooning to it like a spoiled child, the phone had started to ring. Since she was eagerly awaiting a call from her son, she had replaced the pot hurriedly, not noticing that it balanced precariously close to the edge. The call had been from a telemarketer, and disappointed, Mrs. Sanchez had forgotten about her prize plant. Now the ripple of energy from Sam's kick nudged it just enough to topple it over the side of the balcony.

Two floors below, Sam had backed up away from the door, ready to make a charge. A fantasy scenario, straight out of one of his unpublished scripts was playing out in his drink-sozzled mind. He was a vice officer, about to pull off a major bust. The drug lords were inside, counting their cash. Sam held his hands clasped together in a gun shape, index and middle fingers forming the barrel. He turned his shoulder to face the door and pushed off with his back foot, yelling, "Freeze, motherfuckers!"

At precisely the same instant he pushed off, the terracotta pot crashed down on his head. His skull fractured into a jigsaw of razor sharp pieces. One of the jagged pieces was driven down into his brain, slicing through the parietal lobe. The momentum of his traveling body kept Sam barreling forward, crashing the door open and sending him sprawling into the hallway. The door banged against its stopper, rebounded and clicked closed. Sam was quite, quite dead.

Mrs. Sanchez switched on her bedside lamp. "Domingo!" she said, elbowing her husband. "Did you hear that? It sounded like the police!" Mr. Sanchez grunted and rolled over. Mrs. Sanchez listened for a few minutes to the stillness of the night, then she frowned and turned the light back off. She did hope that their handsome new downstairs neighbor wasn't going to be trouble. Young men these days!

Two floors below, her geranium lay in a puddle of soil and broken terracotta, shocked, but otherwise unharmed.

#

Bethany was exhausted. She hated driving, hated SUVs, and now here she was, inching this gas-guzzling behemoth through rush hour traffic. She felt grimy and hot. What a day! She'd spent the morning with her dad, shifting boxes from her apartment to her parents' house, moving back into her old bedroom. At twenty-two, to be moving back home was an embarrassing state of affairs. It's only temporary, she told herself. You're doing it as a favor. There was some truth to that – her parents were going on the vacation of a lifetime – four months in Europe, and her seventeen-year-old brother, Gerald, would be left home alone. Well, not really alone. His dweeby friends practically lived with him. And there was Doofus, the elderly dachshund. But in any case, as Bethany was fond of pointing out, Gerald was book-smart and life-stupid. So, she'd agreed to keep an eye on him.

In fact, Bethany had an ulterior motive for wanting to move back home. She was broke, two months in arrears on her rent, and about to be thrown out of her apartment. She couldn't tell her parents this – they'd wonder where the money they sent her each month was going. The answer, of course, was that Bethany was spending the money on clothing. Bethany reasoned that as a designer she had to project a hip image. Since graduating from art college last year, however, she'd sold only four designs. Two were purchased by a rockabilly clothing manufacturer, and two by a custom motorbike shop. She suspected the motorbike shop owner had only commissioned the designs so he could ogle her breasts during design meetings. Knowing this, she'd worn a low cut top every time. A girl had to get ahead somehow.

A gap opened to her right, and Bethany surged her mother's SUV forward, cutting off a man wearing a suit and driving a salesman's Ford. He leaned on the horn, and Bethany flipped him the finger. God, she was hot and cranky. Rush hour coming home from the airport was hell. Still, her parents' flight would be just about to take off now, and when she got home, she'd have their whole house to herself. Almost.

Sweat trickled down Bethany's back. She'd dressed relatively conservatively today, because of the rigors of moving, and also because she didn't want to get into a fight with her dad. She was wearing a black turtleneck, under navy blue denim overalls, flared wide in the leg. Her dark wavy hair was pulled back and covered by a red scarf, and she wore only a touch of mascara, eyeliner and red lipstick – minimal for Bethany. The look was 1940's working woman. Rosie the Riveter.

She finally reached her turn-off and her eyes were drawn to the beckoning golden arches. Grunting, she swung the hated SUV through the McDonalds drive through, picking up a quarter-pounder, filet-of-fish, fries and a coke. Then she sped home, the bag of food hot on her lap, the smell of fries making her salivate. She hit the garage door remote, and pulled the SUV in beside her dad's electrician's van. Home sweet home – more or less.

She pressed the remote again to close the garage, and cracked open the internal door to the house. Her brother and the dweebs were hanging out in the living room, watching a cheesy sci-fi DVD. The hero fired some sort of weapon, and alien goo splattered on the screen. Mmm, just what she wanted to see at dinner time. Morons. She tried to sneak past, but one of them pressed the remote, freezing the goo in place. Gerald and the strange skinny girl she had seen earlier pointedly ignored her, but she noticed the other new kid – the Asian one, staring at her, and the fat kid – Lawrence – sang out, "Hi Bethany! Do you want to join us?"

The short one – Keith – added, "We've got plenty of popcorn!" Face aglow, he shook a bowl of the artificially yellow snack at her. Doofus the dachshund, who had been asleep at his feet, stood up and barked at him.

"Nu-uh, got dinner," Bethany said, waving the McDonald's bag at them. Keith's face fell, and Lawrence looked pained, although Bethany wasn't sure whether his anguish was due to her arrival or that of the McDonald's bag. Bethany made it easy for him by leaving the room. She closed her bedroom door, stuck her ipod headphones on, and ripped open the bag. She shut her eyes, and sunk her teeth ravenously into the quarter-pounder. Hot grease dribbled down her chin. Mmm, junk food and Morrissey. Heaven. She let out a small orgasmic groan of pleasure.

Listening at her door, having pretended to need the bathroom, Lawrence almost wet himself. He was in heaven too. Bethany was back!

# Chapter Two

This was some hangover, Sam thought, as fog slowly lifted from his brain and consciousness returned. His head was pounding, and he was bitterly cold. Well, no wonder. He was lying on his stomach on the bare tiles of his entranceway. Had he been so drunk he hadn't even made it to bed? Groaning, Sam climbed unsteadily to his feet. Fresh waves of pain shot through his head, and he put his hand to his scalp. His hair was matted and sticky. Now this was weird. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and walked through to the kitchen, turning on the faucet and waiting for the water to run hot. He adjusted the mixer until it ran lukewarm, then bent over, sticking his head under the running water. The cascade of soothing warmth felt great, but Sam was alarmed to see that the water running down the drain was rust-colored. As he probed, a few solid bits came loose from his hair, clattering into the sink. Finally, the water began to run clear. Sam turned off the faucets and rubbed his hair dry with the towel. His skull was still a little tender, but nowhere near as painful as it had been. He examined the bits in the sink. They looked like small chunks of orange pottery. Sam frowned and shook his head. He threw the bits into the trash.

It must have been quite some celebration, he told himself. Still, it was morning now, and he had to get his act together to get ready for work this afternoon. Sam had arrived in the city six weeks ago, and virtually walked into a job, pumping gas at a station a little way down the road, from noon to six p.m. daily. It was a boring, soulless job. A chimpanzee could do it. Actually, a chimpanzee would probably resent doing it. But it was money. It paid the rent, and still left him enough time to work on his writing. He had spent every morning for the first two weeks phoning, faxing, emailing and generally not-taking-no-for-an-answer with every agent in town until he'd found one who would take him on. And now, only a month later, that agent had actually sold something of Sam's – his first screenplay. The advance would allow him to tell 'Mr. Edwards', his eighteen year old pimple-faced shift manager at the gas station to take the job and pump it full of premium unleaded. When he'd finished the edits, and the advance came through, it would pay his living expenses for at least three months, letting him write fulltime. He'd finally be able to say "I'm a writer," without the inevitable embarrassment that followed. This statement, a half-truth at best, invariably led to the question "would I know any of your work?" Sam would have to admit to the questioners that no, they wouldn't. It was still better than telling the truth: he was a pump-monkey. But not for much longer.

Last night he had paid for his drinking binge with money taken from his overdrawn account. The juicy advance payment for his screenplay was still three weeks away, and dependent on some pretty nifty edits, so Sam figured he needed to get to work on the editing this morning, before heading out to work. But first, some breakfast was in order. His stomach was raw and empty – stressed out, no doubt from running on whiskey fumes. He glanced at his watch, and did a double take. Five o'clock? That couldn't be right. Had the battery stopped? But the treacherous second hand was sweeping around just as smoothly as it always had. The clock on the microwave said the same thing. Five o'clock. It was too light to be five a.m. – the shadows on the wall indicative of late afternoon, which meant...Shit! He'd actually missed work. How could he have slept, sprawled on the freezing hall floor, for eighteen hours? Even during his university days, he'd slept off the worst of his occasional binges in ten hours or so.

Sam was ferociously hungry, but there was no time to eat. He bounded through to the bedroom, pulled off his shirt and swiped at his armpits with deodorant. He threw on a new shirt and changed his shoes and socks, then raced to the front door, wrenching it open. On the stoop, the geranium sat forlornly in its pile of broken terracotta. Sam stared at it, noting that the shards of broken pottery looked suspiciously familiar. Then he shook his head, scooted the mess to one side with the edge of his foot, locked the door, and began to jog down the street. It was times like this he regretted selling his car. But he'd needed the money to get established in the city – buying furniture and paying the first month's rent.

He made it to the gas station at 5:40. 'Mr. Edwards' was standing at the cash register, smirking as Sam came panting in. Sam wondered again what his first name was. At the interview the spotty teen had reveled in the fact that he would be Sam's superior, despite being five years younger than Sam. He'd reached this position of seniority simply because he had worked there since he was sixteen. He had proudly boasted that gas station management was his dream career. Well, Sam had thought, whatever floats your boat. So, he had been polite to the kid, calling him 'Mr. Edwards', as he had insisted, and following his sometimes absurd directions. It was just a job, a temporary job at that, and Sam had needed the money.

"So, you got my message," Sam's boss said sternly, his voice cracking slightly. Sam glanced again at the name tag the kid wore. C. Edwards. What was the C for? Cory? Cameron?

"Your message?" he said.

'Mr. Edwards' frowned. "Yes. I left two messages on your voicemail at home, and one on your cellphone, saying that if you didn't put in an appearance today, I'd fire your sorry butt. As it was when you didn't turn up at twelve I had to go out and pump gas myself!" He said this as if it was beneath him, his lip curled up distastefully. "And then when you hadn't even called by two, I had to call in Paula to cover your shift." Paula was a solidly built middle-aged woman. Her husband had walked out on her a year ago, leaving her with two teenage boys and a whopping mortgage. Sam knew Paula needed all the work she could get, and so he didn't feel too guilty that she was working an extra shift because he had overslept.

Jeez, but how had he overslept? Eighteen hours, - and, if Mr. Edwards was to be believed, he had slept through at least three phone calls. He must have been dead to the world.

"Are you listening to me?"

Sam snapped his attention back to the kid. Colin? Charles? Sam was tempted to tell him what he could do with the job – but no, there was still three weeks until he could get the script money, and his overdraft was near the limit.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Edwards," he said instead. "There was a family emergency. It won't happen again."

"It had better not, Sam, or it's your job." Suddenly, the kid's face twisted into a parody of concern. He leaned in towards Sam, and said softly, "You know, this kind of behavior is not the way to make it in the gas station attendance industry."

Sam realized that the kid was trying to sound avuncular. It was hilarious. Sam bit his lip. "No Mr. Edwards," he murmured.

"Alright then." A pretty young woman had come in to pay for her fuel. Sam began to walk away as his boss turned to serve her. "Oh, Sam," he called out. "Remember what I said. It better not happen again, or I'm going to have to fire you."

Sam knew he was only repeating this for the benefit of the pretty customer. The spotty teen was jealous of Sam's good looks and maturity. He gritted his teeth, put his head down and kept walking, waving to Paula on the forecourt as he passed her.

"Casper giving you a rough time?" she called to him. Casper was her name for Mr. C. Edwards. Apart from his bright red pimples, the kid was pretty pale and ghostly looking. Sam nodded. "I think his balls may have dropped," she called out loudly so that their boss could hear her inside the shop. The kid was a little afraid of Paula, so she could get away with that sort of thing. Sam chuckled and moved on. Now that he was out of the apartment, he might as well head down to his local shopping center for some dinner. He was starving. For some reason, he was craving meat. Red meat, and lots of it. Gravy too, and mashed potatoes... His stomach rumbled, and he groaned.

And, he reflected, since he was at the shopping center, he should check his email. Much to his annoyance, email service still hadn't been connected to his apartment. He needed to write a few emails too. He owed his mother a long answer in response to her latest message. She'd sent him several pages packed with interesting details about her research work in Antarctica. It seemed that she had an infinite supply of penguin anecdotes. It would be good to tell his mother about selling the screenplay. She'd be proud of him. As for his Dad... well Sam supposed he should at least let him know his new address and phone number. Just in case. But definitely after he'd eaten.

#

Although Sam had only been living in the city for a couple of months, he knew his own local shopping street well, and now he headed for a greasy-spoon diner which served huge portions of many different cuts of meat, cooked anyway you liked them – just as long as you liked them fried in artery-hardening lard. Sam had eaten a stomach-turning breakfast of bacon and eggs there two weeks back, and had vowed never to return. Now he felt uncontrollable cravings for just such a meal.

A surly busboy, aged twenty-something but balding and resenting the fact, waved Sam towards the diner's sticky counter. None of the tables was free. Sam perched on a padded seat, placing his elbows carefully on the counter to avoid bits of crusted egg and other dinner debris. He picked up a plastic-covered menu, and began almost at once to drool. When the elderly waitress shuffled over, her attitude equally churlish, Sam ordered the biggest ribeye steak they had, with garlic butter, fried egg, mushrooms, and a baked potato stuffed with sour cream and coleslaw. The waitress merely nodded. When the food arrived, Sam bolted it down – and then ordered the same again. This time, the waitress raised one plucked eyebrow. "My, what an appetite," she breathed. Sam grimaced.

When he was finally satisfied – after two dinners, an ice cream sundae and a piece of pecan pie – Sam continued on his way. There was an internet café up the street which he'd been using to contact agents. He booked in some time, and caught up on correspondence, letting his mother know he was still alive.

He was finally full, and he'd discharged a couple of obligations, yet Sam left the internet café feeling unfulfilled. Dusk was descending, yet he didn't want to go back to his lonely apartment, to watch TV yet again, as he'd done every night since he'd moved here. Maybe he should go out, although another night of drinking by himself didn't hold much appeal. What about a movie? He'd look a bit of a loser buying a single ticket, but once the movie started that wouldn't matter. Just toying with the idea, Sam strolled to the nearest bus stop and examined the timetable. Almost immediately, a bus pulled up, its destination downtown, where all the movie theaters could be found. Well, it was obviously meant to be. Sam climbed on board, paid his fare and managed to find a seat near the middle that wasn't smeared with something suspiciously sticky.

Sam had been downtown only a couple of times since his move, so now he watched carefully out the window for familiar landmarks. There – he recognized that bizarre twisted statue. That meant that the cinemaplex he'd checked out once before was just around the corner. He pushed the stop button nearest him. Nothing happened. The bus rumbled along. Grumbling, Sam moved seats and pushed a different button. This time, his request rang a little bell at the front of the bus. Instead of stopping, however, the driver drove on, turning two corners before pulling over at a depot, where he removed his cash box, and left the bus. Sam and the other passengers shuffled off. It was obviously the end of the line. Sam looked around. Why were big city bus depots always so shabby, and poorly lit? The inadequate streetlights showed buildings covered in graffiti and tatty posters stuck haphazardly to every surface. Scruffy people were dotted around the various benches too. Sam frowned in distaste, wishing he still had his car. Never mind. The bus had only turned two corners, so he should be able to work his way back.

He noticed that most of the passengers leaving the depot were heading in the opposite direction to the one Sam had chosen. Nevertheless, he had a plan, and felt he should stick to it. Nervously, he walked down the unfamiliar street, past disused warehouses and grubby-looking sex shops. He turned the corner. Better. Now there were music shops, a bakery, second-hand book shops and bohemian clothing boutiques. He walked on, turning the second corner. Now he could see bars and restaurants in the distance, their tables spilling out onto the street. Music blared from hidden stereos, and people chatted and laughed. He heaved a sigh of relief. He was back in civilization. He noticed an automatic bank machine on the corner. Well, he needed to get some money out. It was as good a time as any. Sam inserted his card, punched in his code number and withdrew fifty bucks, noting with a pang that he was close to his overdraft limit. He crammed the bills into his wallet, and replaced the wallet in his back pocket, turning back to the busy street.

He took only one step down that street before feeling something hard pressing into his back. He whirled around. A skinny looking guy with long stringy hair flattened under a bandana was standing right behind him, eyes wild and crazy. "What the..." Sam began, but then the guy nudged him in the ribs. Sam looked down. A gun! A goddamned gun! Third time in the city and he was being mugged! Jesus, his Dad had been right.

The freaky dude motioned Sam back down the street, around the corner, and into an alley which ran down by the bakery. A dumpster loomed at the back of the alley, lit only by a one feeble light over the bakery's doorway. The alley looked largely disused, except that there was a smaller bin outside the bakery's backdoor, which had been knocked over. Assorted bread products had spilled onto the asphalt. Freaky dude bent over and picked up a donut, keeping the gun trained on Sam. He took a big bite, and, around the mouthful, said "Gimme ya wallet, man."

Sam didn't argue. The guy looked crazy and desperate. He withdrew his wallet and passed it over. The guy smiled a donutty grin, and began to back up, out of the alley, lowering his gun. Sam let out a shaky breath, relieved that the ordeal was over.

Suddenly, the freaky dude's foot came down on a bagel. He slipped, his foot shot out, the gun came up, and his finger twitched. There was a ridiculous popping sound and the bullet passed effortlessly through Sam's cotton shirt and the tanned skin of his chest. It slowed a little as it shattered one of Sam's ribs, then shuddered to a stop, square between the left and right ventricles of his heart. There was pain; pain like Sam had never imagined. He hit the concrete, his head cracking down sharply. He heard the dude saying "Shit man, shit shit shit!" and then heard no more. Sam died.

# Chapter Three

Back at dweeb central, Bethany was not enjoying herself. She had thought some time at her parents' house would be relaxing. She hadn't reckoned on her brother's friends. Feeling trapped in her room, she was beginning to go stir crazy. She'd read her novel for a while (a juicy one, with sexy vampires), and also written in her journal. But anytime she'd left to get a glass of water from the kitchen or to use the bathroom, Keith or Lawrence, or Keith and Lawrence, or sometimes the Asian kid too, had popped up out of nowhere to ask her inane questions, or offer her things or just stare at her. At about ten o'clock, she'd finally given up. She got dressed up, phoned for a taxi, and slipped out the front door. As she'd passed the dweebs, their different reactions on seeing her outfit was almost comical. Gerald had snorted, and whispered something under his breath (she thought it was 'slut'), the gawky girl had glared at her jealously, Lawrence's eyes had bugged out, Keith's mouth had fallen open, and the Asian kid had dropped his bowl of popcorn. Yellow puffs littered the carpet, sending Doofus into a fit of rapturous barking. Well, good. The old dog would eat the popcorn and then barf it up, and Gerald would have to get out the vacuum cleaner.

Bethany hadn't been to her usual club in a few weeks. She hadn't been able to afford the taxi fare, or the expensive drinks. Yes, it was rare for Bethany not to be socializing, but for once she'd been keeping her head down, spending long evenings working on her designs, getting together her portfolio. She'd missed the club, and the gorgeous people who hung out there.

Now it was obvious to Bethany that in the last few weeks the clientele had changed. Tonight, the club was full of emos. These emaciated, sulky teenagers with fake IDs, were all sipping bloody marys and pretending to be lost in a world of their own, while surreptitiously checking to see if they had been noticed. Twice she had been approached by one of the waif boys, both times on a dare, she figured, and each had mumbled some lame pickup line while not even attempting to make eye-contact. She'd blown them off with a cold silence. Jeez, if she'd wanted to be hit on by dweebs, she could have stayed at home.

Every so often she noticed one of the insipid emo girls glaring at her. They were only found in two shapes: boney and angular or fat and flabby. They wore striped black and white leggings and black shapeless T-shirts – the uniform of rebellion. Bethany, in contrast, was curvier than a mountain road. Her cleavage spilled out of a Halloween-orange ruffled chiffon top. Her midriff was bare, and she wore a fetish-skirt which was little more than two flaps of black rubber held together with a belt. The skirt was open at the sides, revealing the fact that she wore no underwear, and showing the lacy tops of her Cuban-heeled stockings. There was a black velvet choker at her throat, and her glossy black hair tumbled about her shoulders, framing her pale face. Her eyes were darkly shadowed, and her lips a slash of gold, currently curled into a sneer. She was so bored. Lucas, the gorgeous (but gay) bartender wasn't even working tonight. She didn't recognize the emo behind the bar. This place used to be happening, but now these horrible kids had found it - bleh. My Chemical Romance blared out of the speakers and Bethany groaned. This was the last straw. Sure, the lead singer was stunning – she'd have him any day – but the music was whiney and angsty and overblown.

To the relief of the emo girls and the disappointment of their boyfriends, Bethany paid her tab and slipped out of the club into the night. She looked at her watch. Shit. 2a.m. Early yet, but nothing to do, nowhere to go. No halfway attractive guys. Suddenly she regretted wearing the rubber-skirt. It was her favorite for the club, but now she wished she'd dressed more conservatively. Then she could have headed for a yuppie bar, picked up some boring guy in a suit and at least got laid. But fetish-wear did not go over well in winebars. Oh well. She didn't really feel like sex to the accompaniment of Phil Collins anyway. Why did guys think "I can feel it coming in the air tonight" made a suitable soundtrack?

No, Bethany would just have to take a book to bed. Sighing, she turned into the street, heading for a taxi rank just a few blocks down. As she strode confidently in her stilettos, drunk men leered at her and women frowned disapprovingly. She gave the men frosty stares and the women a winning smile. God it was good to be young and beautiful. Suddenly, she stood on something soft and squashy, and her ankle rolled, making her stumble. Eww, yuk, she thought, don't tell me I've stood on a rat corpse! That had happened once before. Gross. She steeled herself, then looked down to check. A man's leather wallet was splayed at her feet. "Huh," she grunted, and bent down to retrieve it. She flipped it open and examined the contents. Inside she found an assortment of credit cards, business cards and a driver's license, but no money. The driver's license showed that the wallet belonged to a Sam Shore. His photo was cute, very cute. Given that driver's license photos typically made the owner look like a monkey's butt, this guy was bound to be an Adonis. Things were looking up. Maybe she could find him and claim a reward. Mmm...

Bethany was about to move on, when she heard groaning. It was coming from an alleyway behind her. She froze, her heart racing. Shit. Aw shit. "Walk away," she heard a voice in her head advising her. But the voice was her mother's, so instead, Bethany took her pepper spray out of her purse, took a deep breath and strode into the alley.

The groaning was coming from a dumpster – probably some drunk. Then again, she thought, looking at the wallet in her hand, maybe not. Steeling herself, she flung up the lid of the dumpster, thrust out the pepper spray, and peered into the gloom. In the dim light from a doorwell, she could see the dumpster was about two-thirds full of pale blue trash sacks. On top of them, a guy was lying in a pool of dark liquid. Ick – blood. More blood was bubbling from a hole in his chest. The guy was gasping, gurgling and groaning. Even with his face distorted in pain Bethany could see it was the cute driver's license guy – Sam – and he was about to die. She groaned, knowing there was nothing she could do for him, even as she pulled her cellphone out of her purse and began to call for help. The hole in his chest was massive and messy. The ambulance would be too late.

The guy stretched out a hand towards her, and gurgled. It sounded like "Angel?"

Bethany had been asked if she was an angel many times before now. It was one of her most despised pickup lines. But this guy meant it literally. He knew he was dying. Despite this, he struggled to sit up. Staring at him with a mixture of horror and pity, Bethany was dumbfounded to see that the wound in his chest appeared to be slowly shrinking. This couldn't be happening! But it was. Her breath caught as she stared in amazement. The ragged edges of the hole in his chest were pulling towards each other and knitting together. Now he was hauling himself out of the dumpster. She backed away as he jumped lightly to the ground, landing in a crouch, his hands on his head. He moaned. The hole in his chest continued to repair itself until, with a soft sucking sound, a bullet was expelled from the wound. It seemed to leap away from his chest, and hit the ground with a clink. The man stood up, still looking dazed, unable to focus or speak. Bethany inched forward and put her hand tentatively on his chest, finding it smooth and undamaged, under a coating of sticky blood. Absently, she wiped her hand on her blouse.

She was still staring in wonderment when she became aware of the cellphone squawking at her. "Emergency services! Hello? Are you there? What service do you require?"

"Um... sorry. No emergency," she mumbled into the phone. "My...um...my kids were just playing around." She pressed the disconnect button.

The man – Sam – was standing upright now, his breathing easier. He was rubbing his chest, and looking at her, his cute face clouded in confusion.

"I don't really have kids," she blurted, then immediately chastised herself. Calm down! She smoothed her hair, straightened the rubber skirt and tried to look demure. Not easy in a blood-stained top. Not easy in a two-flap rubber skirt either. "My name's Bethany."

Sam nodded, and attempted a wan smile. He still felt confused. Had he really been shot? He rubbed his chest again, but his skin was unmarred. Only a slight residual pain betrayed the truth. That and a ragged hole in his shirt. What was going on? The girl was watching him expectantly. "I'm Sam," he said eventually.

"I know, Sam Shore," Bethany said. "I mean – I found this out in the alley." She thrust the wallet out to him.

"Thanks," he said, taking it, and ruefully noticing that the money-section was empty. Still, that was the least of his worries. He put it into his back pocket. "I was mugged," he said, by way of explanation.

"Uh-huh," Bethany said. Sam suddenly realized that he was soaked in blood. Bethany had blood on her blouse too. He had to get out of here.

"I...um...well, thanks for your help," Sam said lamely.

Bethany bent down and picked something up from the ground, concealing it in the palm of her hand. "Uh-huh," she said again. They stared at each other for a while.

"We'd both better get home," Sam said, finally. He began to walk out of the alley.

"Wait!" Bethany yelled, startling them both. She couldn't let this guy get away. "Are you doing anything tomorrow night? Can I buy you a drink?" She winced. Ooooh, that sounded pathetic.

Sam frowned distractedly, his mind still on his chest wound. He needed to get back to his apartment to think things through. "Sorry, can't," he murmured, and weaved away.

Bethany stared at his back, her mind reeling, then she slowly opened her hand to reveal two things. The first was Sam's business card, which she had palmed before returning his wallet. It was red, black and white, with only his name and phone number on it in a simple font. No job title, no place of work. Interesting.

The second item was a bullet, still sticky with blood. She put it to her lips and kissed it lightly, reveling in the salty tang, then squeezed her hand tightly around the small piece of metal. Her long fingernails jabbed into her palm. Oh my fucking God, she thought. I've just tasted the blood of the undead! How cool is that?

#

As soon as Bethany left the house, Lawrence announced to the gang that he had to take a dump. Ursula looked at him in disgust, but the others were too engrossed in their DVD to notice. Princess Leia was wearing a gold bikini, after all. Lawrence walked quickly to the bathroom, and shut the door. Then he tiptoed down the hall to Bethany's room. He slipped quietly inside, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

Lawrence had fallen hopelessly in love with Bethany the first time he'd seen her. He was certain Keith had too. Both of them had become friends with Gerald at school, and had been invited to his tenth birthday party. They'd all been in Gerald's room, trying out his new computer games when this goddess had swept into the room, and said in a bored voice, "Mom wants to know when you're going to come out and cut your cake." She was devastatingly gorgeous, with thick, black, waist-length hair, a pouty mouth, huge eyes, curvy hips, and oh god, breasts. Actual breasts, peeking out of the top of her blouse. He had felt an unfamiliar and not unpleasant stirring in his pants at the time. He had looked across at Keith and Gerald to see if they'd noticed. Keith was looking as just stunned as he felt, staring at the girl in wonderment. Gerald was frowning and saying, "Tell her ten minutes."

The girl had shrugged, said "tell her yourself," and flounced out. Lawrence had immediately demanded to know who that was.

Gerald had given him a funny look and said, "Oh, that's just Beth, my sister." Then he had rolled his eyes and added, "She's fifteen," as if that explained something.

After that, Lawrence had spent as much time as he possibly could over at Gerald's. So had Keith. They lived to catch glimpses of Bethany, and there had been much stirring in the pants department, until the day Bethany had suddenly moved out, just after Gerald's fourteenth birthday. For the following three years, Lawrence had hardly seen her. In that time, he had developed crushes on many other girls, but none of them measured up to Bethany. Keith, he observed, had transferred his attentions to Ursula. Gawky and scrawny, Ursula had joined the gang about a year ago. She had a caustic way of talking to Keith, and was downright cruel to Lawrence, but she liked the same movies, books, TV shows and computer games as the boys did. She was a geek. And she was a girl.

But now Bethany was back, and Lawrence was thrilled. Sure, he was a bit upset that she looked through him, without any flicker of warmth or even trace of recognition. He wished she'd at least remembered him. He longed for her to just notice him, now that he'd grown up. Now that he'd become a man. He wondered if getting an eyebrow piercing would help. But his mother would kill him.

Lawrence stood for a moment amongst Bethany's unpacked boxes. He ached to open them, to touch her things. But he couldn't. Then he noticed that there were a few empty boxes crushed and stacked in one corner. She must have done some unpacking then. Perhaps she'd unpacked her clothes. Eagerly, Lawrence wrenched open the closet. Bliss! The smell of Bethany's perfume wafted out, enveloping him, causing the too-familiar stirring. He reached out one hand to stroke her black velvet dress. The other hand fumbled in his pants. But no – he couldn't. Not with the others expecting him back. Reluctantly, he let go of his erection, and closed the closet door. He was about to sneak out again when he noticed a red leather-bound book on Bethany's bed. This was too tempting. Lawrence flipped it open to a page marked with a silk ribbon. He scanned the words his beloved Bethany had written only a few hours ago. It was all about her disgust at having to move back home. Suddenly, his own name leaped out at him. 'I hate to say it, but my brother's taste in friends hasn't improved. Along with those dorks, Lawrence and Keith, he now has a creepy Asian kid and an ugly chick in his entourage.'

Lawrence ran his finger over the words 'those dorks, Lawrence and Keith,' and smiled happily, his toes curling in delight. She does know I exist!

He replaced the book, checking to make sure the room was just as he had found it, and then slipped back into the hall, along to the bathroom and flushed the toilet. He made hand-washing sounds and returned to the living room. Gerald and A.J. ignored him, but Keith turned towards him suspiciously and said, "You were a long time."

Ursula looked up with a nasty smile, and said, "I bet he was jerking off."

#

Sam weaved away from the alley as fast as he could. His chest ached. Wearily he withdrew more money from his ailing account, then hailed a cab, and was relieved that the cabbie didn't even blink at his bloody appearance. Sam climbed in, slumping back in his seat, thinking. Okay, things were seriously weird. He was certain he had been shot, possibly through the lungs, and he remembered the shocked look on the mugger's face. He remembered staggering back, unable to draw breath, gurgling blood instead. He remembered falling backwards, hitting concrete, and his consciousness fading away. He remembered thinking 'I'm dying,' and then nothing. Then he remembered a hazy return to consciousness. He was in a dumpster on top of a pile of trash bags. Had the mugger hauled him into the dumpster? Presumably. There was pain, terrible pain in his lungs, and he could barely breathe. But then the pain started to fade, and the breathing got easier. The dark-haired girl had appeared, and he had felt his strength growing. He had climbed out of the dumpster, then noticed her staring at his chest. When he looked down, he had seen the edges of his wound repairing themselves, and the bullet squeezing backwards out of the shrinking hole. Then he had felt well enough to stand. How much had the girl seen? Not as much as he had, obviously, since she hadn't freaked out.

So, had he died? Had he actually died? He looked at his watch. 2:30 am. So, he must have woken up about 2am. This meant about seven missing hours, since he had got into town around 7p.m.

He was missing time... just like before. He thought about the blood matting his hair when he had woken up. The fragments of terracotta. The broken terracotta pot outside his front door. Okay, he thought. So I was hit on the head by a flowerpot, and knocked out for eighteen hours. That seems plausible. But then, after apparently bleeding into my hair, I woke up with no wound at all. My body healed itself – just like it did now, with the bullet. And that bullet... Why didn't it kill me?

Sam paid the cabbie, and trudged down the steps to his apartment. Stopping to unlock the front door, he noticed that the geranium and broken pot had gone. Maybe Mrs. Sanchez upstairs had rescued it. She seemed the type – a real plant lover. He had heard that she took care of the gardens for the whole property, in return for slightly reduced rent. Or so Mr. Jackson above him had said.

Sam brushed his teeth, and stripped down to boxers, examining his chest in the mirror, expecting to find it unblemished. There was just the hint of a pink mark where the bullet must have struck. He frowned at his reflection, pulled on a t-shirt and then threw himself into bed, exhausted.

He couldn't sleep. He was too hot. He kicked off the comforter, then the sheets, then pulled off his t-shirt, and finally the boxers. It didn't help. There was a high window in the bedroom, level with the path outside. He pushed it open a crack, sighing as a chill breeze cooled him. He was about to get back into bed when he realized he was once again ravenous. He walked through to the kitchen and pulled out a half loaf of bread. He made himself a ham sandwich, slathering on the mayo and mustard. He wolfed it down, and made a second. Then a third. Then, he was out of ham, so he ate mayo and mustard sandwiches instead. Soon the bread and the mustard were long gone. Sighing, he got a spoon out of the cutlery drawer, and polished off the mayonnaise. Then he ate two cans of fruit salad, and a box of raisins. Finally satisfied, he returned to the bedroom, and lay down.

No good. He couldn't sleep. He thought about working on the edits he needed to make to his screenplay, but really, 5:30am was never the best time to write. Instead, he re-read an old novel he'd bought a couple of years back.

Four hours later, with no sign of sleep coming, Sam got up and showered. He cleaned up the mess he'd made in the kitchen, and then booted up his laptop. He could write for a couple of hours before work. He sat, staring at the words, and the blinking cursor, but the ideas wouldn't come. His thoughts kept drifting back to the shooting. And the other thing. The...flowerpotting.

Finally at 11:30 he sighed, shut down the laptop and went through to the bedroom to change into his ugly gas station uniform. He walked to work, thoughts still churning.

#

Bethany woke up late, after a night of glorious dreams, and the memory of the previous night flooded in, overwhelming her. She glanced at the bedside table, relieved to see the bullet lying there where she'd left it, on Sam's business card. She picked the bullet up, turning it over and over in her hand. She picked up the business card and pressed it to her cheek. She thought about calling him then, and arranging a date, but it was still morning. That wouldn't be cool.

Instead, she got out her journal, and began to write. After a while, she realized she was hungry. Throwing on a vintage kimono, she walked through to the kitchen, and prepared herself a bowl of cereal. She was sitting at the kitchen bench, eating it, daydreaming about Sam, when Lawrence and Keith appeared. "Oh, hi Bethany," Lawrence said. "Gerald said we could make sandwiches for lunch."

Bethany nodded, climbed down off the stool and retreated to her room, taking her cereal with her. Great. Moving back home for a while had seemed like the solution to her financial troubles. Now she felt trapped here in her childhood bedroom. It seemed the dweebs had the run of the rest of the house. They were here all day, every day.

Bethany looked at the pile of boxes and sighed. At least she could make her room more habitable. She attacked the first box, distributing knickknacks around the room, a ruby-red cut glass lamp by her bed, candles on every surface and her sketches tacked to the walls. The books would come next. She began to unpack her novels into a bookcase. Anne Rice, Laurell K. Hamilton and Poppy Z Brite. One of the covers showed a handsome man who looked very much like Sam. She ran her fingers over his image. The character, as in most of the books, was a vampire. He was immortal, having the power to heal all wounds. Was that what Sam was, she wondered?

Sam...she looked at her watch. 1p.m. Not too early to call? No. She picked up the phone and rang his home number. There was no answer, and she hung up rather than leave a message. Shit. Oh well, she'd try his cellphone. But there was no answer there, either.

She steeled herself to leave a message. She'd have to sound sexy, but cool. Not too desperate. Again she phoned Sam's home number, and left what she hoped was a casual message. That done, she finished her unpacking, then flattened each of the boxes and carted them out to the garage. Sam did not call back. She tried his home and cell phones again. Still no answer.

Her room was tidy now. So, what to do? Well, her portfolio always needed expanding. She got out her sketch pad and began to draw. She drew Sam, lying in a pool of blood, face contorted in pain. She sketched a close-up of his face, then added fangs. That seemed right, somehow. She drew a picture of Sam bent over a woman, his mouth pressed to her neck, her head thrown back in agony or ecstasy. A few more deft lines and the woman became a self-portrait. Sighing, Bethany slipped the sketches inside her journal and picked up the phone again, trying the same two numbers. Still nothing. Damn.

She was getting hungry, and thirsty too. Cautiously, she crept out of her bedroom and walked through to the kitchen. There was microwave macaroni and cheese in the pantry. Very quietly, she opened the packet, dumping the contents into a bowl, adding milk and butter, and stirring. She opened the microwave door, placed the bowl inside and clicked the door shut. She pushed the keypad for three minutes, wincing as each press of a button elicited a harsh beep.

Sure enough, within moments, Keith, Lawrence, and now the new Asian kid too, appeared, Doofus padding in after them. "We've come to get some sodas," Lawrence explained. "Oh, and this is AJ." The Asian kid looked at his shoes.

"Uh-huh," Bethany said. Keith opened the fridge and pulled out a six-pack of grape soda. "We only need five sodas," he said, voice high and tight. "So – do you want the other one?"

Bethany nodded, and reached out a hand. "Sure, that'd be great," she said, without enthusiasm. Keith beamed and passed her the can. They all stared at each other in awkward silence. Bethany popped the top of her can, and took a big swig of the syrupy drink, tilting her head back. The boys gasped.

AJ, the new kid, suddenly spoke. "We should cut the rings. You know, on the sodas. 'Cause seabirds can get caught in them and dolphins and stuff." He pointed to the sodas, which Keith was holding by the empty ring where Bethany's soda had been.

"Uh-huh," Bethany said. She turned to check the microwave. Only two of her three minutes had elapsed. She pressed cancel, and removed the bowl. She grabbed a fork, jammed it in the macaroni, said, "Well, see ya," and bolted for her room. Jeez, she was going to have to talk to Gerald about his friends. She couldn't stand the sight of them. Besides, this was her house too now. From tomorrow, they'd have to find a new hangout. Perched on the edge of her bed, she drew a forkful of macaroni to her mouth and blew on it to cool it. She took a bite. The pasta was still a little hard, and some of the cheese powder hadn't blended in, but it tasted darn good. She scraped the bowl clean and drained the grape soda, all the while staring at the phone. Ring!

Her eyes drifted to the trashy novel. Of course, if Sam was a vampire, he'd sleep during the day, wouldn't he? And so maybe she'd have to wait until sunset for him to call back. She picked up her journal and wrote a bit more about Sam. Then she thought maybe it was time to get dressed. What if Sam called and asked her out? She should be ready. But then, what if he called while she was in the shower? In the end, she took the cordless phone and her cellphone with her, using her parents' ensuite bathroom to get as far away from the dweebs as possible. She shaved her legs and underarms, and washed her hair. Neither phone rang. She got out, toweled dry, and wrapped her kimono back around her. The phones didn't ring. She carried them back through to her room, and got dressed in a red sleeveless Chinese blouse, black pants, and heels. But still, the phones didn't ring. She blow-dried her hair, standing close to the phones so she could hear them over the drier. They didn't ring.

# Chapter Four

Sam arrived at the gas station, walked through the shop and into the utility area designated 'staff room'.

Mr. Edwards jumped to his feet, hastily stashing something behind his back. A girly magazine, Sam supposed. The boy flushed red, recovered, and before Sam could speak, said, "Why are you wearing that shirt, Shore?"

"Huh?" Sam replied.

"The shirt," his boss said, through gritted teeth. "You are supposed to launder it before you return it. That's company policy. Never mind, give it here." He held out his right hand, keeping his left, and whatever was in it, behind his back.

"You want my shirt?" Sam said, confused.

"What, you didn't get my messages? Again? Jeez." He stood on tiptoe, leaning into Sam, driving hot pizza breath into his face. "You – are – fired – Sam. You – are – history. And," he added with a smirk, "that shirt is company property."

"Fired? What for? I'm here aren't I?"

"Yes, but you weren't here yesterday, Shore, and you had sufficient warning, exactly according to company policy." Now the kid let out a little giggle. Suddenly Sam was enraged.

"Listen, you little fuck," he shouted, poking Mr. Edwards in the chest. "You only gave me the warning yesterday."

Beads of sweat sprang up on the kid's forehead, but he stood his ground. "That was two days ago. You can ask Paula if you don't believe me. She had to cover for you again yesterday."

At that point, Paula pushed open the door to the utility/staff room and poked her head in. "Everything okay?" she asked. Sam took a step back from Mr. Edwards. He was about to speak, when Paula added, "Oh, hi Sam. Missed you yesterday. I hope everything's okay with your family?" Sam stared at her. "Sam?" she said, concerned.

"See?" Mr. Edwards said, voice an octave higher than normal.

"What day is it?" Sam said softly.

"Friday," Paula and Mr. Edwards answered together, the two of them exchanging a look.

"Well, fuck," said Sam. He sighed. Then he pulled his shirt over his head, and flung it at a startled Mr. Edwards. It smacked him in the face. Surprised, the boy dropped the magazine he'd been holding. The cover was pink and emblazoned with the words 'Teen Scene Magazine'. Underneath this, the latest boy band hunk was pouting prettily. Sam let out a hollow laugh, stepped over the magazine, mumbled a goodbye to Paula, and left the station.

Thirty seconds later, he was back. He was hungry. Scowling, he stalked around the store, while Mr. Edwards stood awkwardly behind the counter. He collected four packets of dry roasted peanuts, one packet of honey roasted cashews, two egg salad sandwiches and three bottles of chocolate milk. He threw them down on the counter. Biting his lip, Mr. Edwards pointed to a sign which read, 'No shirt, no shoes, no service.' Sam gave a low growl. The kid began ringing up his items. "Okay," he muttered, "but you don't get employee discount anymore."

Sam scooped up the food. "Take it out of my wages," he called over his shoulder as he strode out the door. Bare-chested, not caring about staring pedestrians, Sam slouched home, tipping nuts into his mouth and taking gulp after gulp of chocolate milk. He weighed up the exorbitant gas station food prices against his minimum wage salary, and realized that this purchase might just wipe out whatever he was owed for his last week's work. What was this crazy hunger all about then? He had to go shopping soon and get in some inexpensive but filling food.

Then he was back at the apartment. He shoved open the gate, nearly smacking it into a flustered Mrs. Sanchez. "Oh, ah," he said ineffectually, spraying her with nut chewings. Mrs. Sanchez looked at his bare chest, in horror. "Say, what day is it?" he asked her.

With a strangled answer of "Friday," Mrs. Sanchez fled through the gate, crossing herself as she went. Sam sighed.

He found a couple of letters in his mailbox – one for the previous tenant, the other addressed to the occupant. He unlocked his apartment, and tossed the mail on the hall table, along with his keys and some loose change, and picked his cellphone up. He wasn't allowed his cellphone at work for fear incoming calls would spark an explosion. Sam remembered watching an episode of MythBusters on TV that had dispelled that myth, but Mr. Edwards had insisted that rules be followed.

There were four missed calls. One he figured was the gas station, and the other three were from the same local number. Sam frowned at the phone. Who would be trying to call him so urgently? He tried the landline, and the dial tone indicated that he had a new message there too. He typed in his pin code and was surprised to hear a sultry, breathy voice.

"Hi, Sam. It's Bethany here. We...uh...We met in the alleyway last night. It would be great to see you again. I'm free tonight, or whenever. Please call me." She left a number. It matched the number on his cellphone. There were two more messages – both hang-ups.

Jeez, so she'd phoned him maybe six times. She'd seemed a bit intense when he'd first met her. Now it looked like maybe she had a touch of stalker mentality. Could he face that right now? Sure, she was pretty, but... He had issues at the moment.

The next message started. "Hello, Sam, Caspian Edwards here." Caspian! "I'm sorry to inform you, but due to your absence from work, your employment with us has been terminated. Your final pay check will be mailed to you in due course. Don't forget to return your uniform." Sam could hear the smirk. "If you need a reference..." There was a pause. "Don't call me!" Then a click.

Sam threw himself down on his lumpy sofa, purchased for twenty bucks from a yard sale, and cradled his head in his hands. He had to face it. Something seriously weird was going on. He had gone out to see the movie on Thursday, and now it was Saturday. Somehow, he had entirely missed Friday. The only conclusion he could draw was that he had lain in the dumpster for thirty-one hours, not seven. And of course, he had missed eighteen hours when the geranium had hit him.

Sam sat in his pokey living room, staring into space. In the back of his mind, he had the niggling thought that he should be working on his screenplay. Yeah – as if he could concentrate. Instead, he picked up the remote and turned on the TV, flipping channels until he found something suitably mindless. He ate the two egg sandwiches without tasting them.

#

Bethany waited until eight o'clock. By now it was dark. If he was a vampire, then he should be up. Why didn't he call? Maybe he just didn't fancy her – presumably he could have his pick of women. Yes, but none of them would want him like she did. She looked at the sketches she'd made. They were right, she just knew it. She knew him. She knew what he was. Alright, she thought, so tell him.

She called again, leaving a second message, then lay back on her bed, idly chewing a thumbnail. Shit, what a dumb message, she thought. I sound like a nutcase. Sighing, she put on her makeup. The phone didn't ring. But there was a knock on her door. "What!" she yelled. The door opened and Keith stuck his head in.

"We're going to order pizza. You want anything?"

"No," Bethany snapped. "I'm going out."

"Oh, okay." Keith's head withdrew. Bethany grabbed her purse, shoved the cellphone into it, and marched out to the garage. She flung herself into the hated SUV, and as soon as the garage door was open, backed quickly out. Maybe she'd find Sam in town – back at that same alley, perhaps, looking for the guy who'd shot him. Maybe he was one of those vamps who only feasted on lowlifes. Yeah, that seemed right.

#

Sam sat in the darkened living room and let the flickering light of the TV wash over him. The phone rang, but he ignored it, and let the machine pick up. He recognized the purring voice and groaned. It was Bethany, again. "This is Beth. I'd really like you to call. I..." There was a deep breath here, and then a rush of words. "...saw you come back from the dead. And I know what that makes you. It doesn't scare me – it... it excites me. I want to find out more about you, so, please call. I can be what you need." Her voice seemed strained and tense.

Shit – what had she just said? "I saw you come back from the dead."

Dead? Sure – he'd lost some hours here and there, but... dead? Well, he reasoned, dying was the usual consequence of being shot in the chest. And, for that matter, the usual consequence of being hit on the head by a heavy object dropped from a height. So far, so normal. Coming back from the dead though? Definitely not normal. But the evidence was there. He had had a head wound, it had healed. He had had a chest wound, it had healed. And the bullet had ejected itself, and he also had a witness. A witness. He thought about Bethany. He would have to call her back and make up some story. She was too weird, too complicated, and he just couldn't deal with it. Not tonight though. Tomorrow.

He was too tired tonight, having not slept the night before. Still inexplicably hungry, Sam scrounged what he could from the kitchen, then changed into a t-shirt and boxers. Remembering how hot he had been the night before, he opened the window a crack, and then slipped in between the sheets, falling at once into a deep sleep. He didn't hear the phone ringing, yet again.

#

As soon as he heard Bethany pulling out of the garage, Lawrence made an excuse to leave the living room. Pulse racing, he slipped once more into her room. She had unpacked properly now, and the room was decorated to her tastes, a reflection of Bethany. Lawrence inhaled, breathing in her perfume. He imagined for a moment that the room was her – was Bethany – and he was inside her, but the thought made him giddy. He turned in a slow circle, taking in the books, ornaments and sketches on the wall. One sketch was particularly arresting. It showed Bethany as the victim of a vampire, her head turned to one side, the vampire's mouth buried in her neck. Well, not victim, really. The look Bethany had drawn on her own face was one of triumph.

Lawrence had only a few minutes. Where would Bethany keep her most treasured things? The drawer next to her bed, of course. He examined the drawer carefully, checking for booby traps, or tricks, like a hair laid over the crack. Sweating now, Lawrence drew the drawer carefully back. Inside, Bethany's diary lay on a collection of objects. He tucked it under his arm, and bent to look closer at the drawer's contents. There was a tube of moisturizer, some lip balm, a packet of tissues, and a box of condoms, which nearly made his heart stop. Strangely, there was also what looked like a bullet, wrapped in a tissue. He shrugged at that, then undid the lid of the lip balm, dipped in a fat finger, and swiped the grease across his own lips. He put the lip balm back, and as he did so, something rolled forward from the back of the drawer. It was a long pink tube, with a rounded end. Lawrence picked it up, studying it curiously. His thumb knocked a switch at the side, and the object began to pulsate, humming softly. Lawrence's eyes widened. At exactly the same moment, he became aware that the door to Bethany's room was opening. Shit! She'd come back already. She must have forgotten something. Lawrence sprang upright, nudging the drawer shut with his knee, and holding the book and the vibrator behind his back, fumbling for the off switch and looking guiltily at the door. His brain was desperately sifting for a plausible explanation he could offer Bethany.

Instead of his beloved, however, Keith was backing slowly into the room, keeping an eye on the hall. He closed the door softly, turned around, saw Lawrence and yelped.

"You!" Lawrence whispered.

Keith pressed a hand to his chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!" he whispered back. "What are you doing in here?" Lawrence blushed, and shrugged. Keith frowned, listening. "What's that noise? What have you got behind your back?" Lawrence sighed, and showed Keith, finding the switch at the same time and finally silencing the hum. Keith goggled. "Is that... is that Bethany's?" Lawrence nodded. "Well, you'd better put it back." Lawrence nodded again and opened the drawer, putting the vibrator far back inside. "Jesus!" Keith whispered, staring at Lawrence.

Lawrence waved the book at Keith. "This is hers too. I read it the other day. She mentioned us."

"Give me a look then," Keith said, putting out his hand.

Lawrence took a step back. "No, I want to see what she's written since." He flipped the diary open and Keith came to stand by his side, straining on tiptoes to read the pages. They read in silence, and then Lawrence let the book close. They stared at each other.

Finally, Keith said, "She must be writing a novel."

Lawrence shook his head. "It doesn't make sense. The rest of the book is a diary. A normal diary. And she's written all this stuff like a diary too. It doesn't sound like a novel." He frowned. "It sounds like she's actually met some undead guy. Who might be a vampire." His eyes caught the sketch on the wall, Bethany's face smugly serene, the vampire tall and dark and handsome. "And she's fallen in love with him. Fuck." The word sounded odd since Lawrence didn't curse very often. His mother hated cursing. "I mean," he went on, "how can we compete with an undead guy?"

Keith gaped at Lawrence incredulously, and forgetting to whisper said, "Oh, come on! Bethany's sooo hot! She'd never look twice at guys like us!"

Lawrence looked back at Keith, and smirked. "Is that why you've been mooning about Ursula then? Think you've got a chance with her, do you?" He made kissy noises.

Keith looked profoundly irritated. "Huh, well at least I've got a chance with Ursula. If I try it on I might get laid. I'm not going to die a virgin like you!"

Lawrence shoved Keith in the chest. "Yeah? Well if you've given up on Bethany, what are you doing in her room then?"

"I might ask both of you that," Gerald said softly, his voice sour and mouth twisted into a sneer. Unobserved by Keith and Lawrence, he had quietly opened the door and was regarding them coolly. Ursula stood behind him, her face haughty. Keith's face turned pink, and he groaned inwardly. How much had she heard? Luckily, Lawrence changed the subject.

"I'm worried about your sister, Gerald," Lawrence said. He waved the diary at Gerald and Ursula. "She's been acting weird lately, and now I know why."

"Um, me too," Keith threw in, as Gerald slouched across the room and snatched the diary from Lawrence.

"She's always been weird," Gerald muttered. Ursula stood stock still, stringy hair hanging over her face, arms folded tightly across her small breasts, pointedly not looking at Keith. Gerald flipped the book open, and Lawrence directed him to the page.

Gerald read rapidly and then looked up at Lawrence, dark eyes gleaming. "So? You don't believe this, do you? She's just making up crap." He gestured to the bookshelf full of Anne Rice and Laurell K. Hamilton novels. "She likes all this gothic shit."

"Maybe," said Lawrence, "but it doesn't sound made up, does it? I mean, 'Sam Shore.' Hardly a fictional vampire name is it? And she mentions real places. And... there's also this." He slid open the drawer and removed the bullet, holding it up between thumb and forefinger.

Keith whistled. "That's a real bullet alright," he said unnecessarily. "It matches her story."

Gerald frowned at the bullet. Ursula took the book from him and began to read, absently chewing a hangnail. AJ, having been left alone in the living room, now wandered in to join them, Doofus following at his heels. AJ sensed the tension coming from Gerald and decided not to speak. Ursula finished reading the section, then wordlessly passed the book to AJ. They watched him read. Doofus waddled on stout little legs over to Bethany's waste basket, and began nosing around.

Finally Ursula spoke. "You know, it could be true."

"Crap," Gerald snapped at her. "Undead guys? Possible vampires? Are you mental?"

Ursula blinked at him. "Actually, there have been countless documented cases of people with supernatural abilities. And there are people who really do feed on blood. And there are so many legends about vampires, there has to be some truth to them. Almost all stories are based on some grain of fact."

Gerald glared at her from under his heavy black bangs until she broke eye contact. "Well, it's none of our business, anyway," he said.

"But she's your sister," Keith said, "And she wants to hook up with some freak. Of course that's your business."

"Alright," Gerald said. "It's my business. Not yours."

"That's not true," Lawrence said. "We all care about Bethany."

"Yeah," said Keith and AJ together.

Ursula snorted. "Oh, yeah, you lot care about her alright! Still, what harm is there in investigating? If there really are vampires in the city – well, then it's everybody's business." Gerald scowled at her.

Doofus began to whine and paw at the waste basket. Something orange was hanging from his mouth. "Drop," said Gerald. Doofus dropped the thing, and Gerald scooped it up. It was a piece of chiffon fabric – the blouse Bethany had been wearing the night before. He spread it out. It was streaked with blood.

Ursula stared at Gerald, her eyebrows raised, challenging him to dismiss this evidence.

"We could see if this guy exists for a start," AJ said quietly, and the others turned to stare at him. "He'll have online records. You just have to know where to look."

"You mean hacking?" Gerald said. AJ bit his lip and nodded, but Gerald suddenly grinned and slapped him on the back. "Well, alright then!" He balled up the blouse and threw it back in the waste basket. Doofus ran to retrieve it, but Gerald scooped up the little dog. At the change in Gerald's mood, Ursula beamed. Keith, thinking her smile was meant for him, felt a surge of hope. AJ was pleased that the others thought he was useful.

Lawrence told himself that he should be happy that they were taking action, but he had a niggling feeling. Was he betraying Bethany? He slipped Bethany's journal back into her drawer, sighing as he caught sight of the condom box again. The five of them left her room, closing the door behind them and adjourning to Gerald's room, where AJ at once took over the computer, Gerald sitting beside him. Ursula perched on the edge of Gerald's bed, but when Keith sat next to her, moved to a beanbag, where she picked up a comic book and pretended to read it. Keith examined his fingernails. Lawrence picked up a foam rubber R2D2, leaned against a wall, and began rhythmically squeezing the toy.

A couple of hours later, they had some information. There was a Sam Shore, supposed age twenty six, newly registered as a tenant in a suburb not far from where they were right now. His occupation was listed as self-employed, which seemed suspicious, coupled with the fact that he hadn't been in town long. They wrote down his address.

#

Bethany came in late, disappointed after a fruitless search for Sam. The house was quiet – the dweebs finally gone back to their hobbit-holes, she supposed, and her brother was presumably asleep in his fetid bedroom. She didn't bother to look. She checked her messages and was unsurprised to find none.

Suddenly she felt like crying. Instead, she pulled down the ladder leading to the attic, switched on the light, and climbed up to search through the boxes of her old stuff that her mother had stored up there. Bethany found what she was looking for, closed the box, turned off the light, replaced the ladder and went back to her room. There, she pulled on slightly musty but completely comfortable flannel kitten pajamas and climbed into bed. She fell asleep, Mr. Snuggle-Poo, the one-eyed floppy bunny, clasped in her arms.

#

The gang had always hung out at Gerald's house for a number of reasons. Firstly, Gerald's dad was an electrician, and quite well off. He had purchased a great home entertainment suite, and set it up in the living room that was reserved for Gerald's use – and Bethany's when she'd been at home. Bethany of course would have been mortified to bring any of her friends back to this suburban paradise – preferring to meet them in clubs or at their squalid apartments – so it became Gerald's entertaining room by default. Their parents had a second living room for their own use, which, inexplicably, they referred to as the parlor. This guaranteed Gerald and his friends some measure of privacy, which was the second reason the gang hung out there. The third reason was that Gerald's mother encouraged the group to come around – keeping the pantry and fridge stocked with snacks, and spoiling their son with a Playstation, an X-Box, a Nintendo Wii – anything that was new and nerdy. She did this because of Bethany. Somehow she felt that she had failed with Bethany – who had been a sulky, seemingly friendless teenager. Gerald was broody too – but at least he had friends. The fourth reason was one of habit. When Bethany had still lived at home, Lawrence and Keith had used every plausible – and many implausible – excuse to come around, just in hopes of catching a glimpse of her. Ursula had joined the gang almost two years ago, and AJ a few months back, and it was just natural that they should come over too. And the fifth reason was perhaps the most compelling. The group had nowhere else to go.

Lawrence's mom didn't like him to have friends over, and if he did bring someone home – usually Keith – his mom would fuss around making sure they were using coasters for their drinks, checking that they weren't putting their feet on the coffee table, and always, always asking embarrassing questions. Worse still, Lawrence was obliged to keep his computer in the family room, with the screen turned in such a way that his mother could see it from the kitchen. There was no way her son was going to be exposed to internet filth! So, Lawrence's place was out.

Keith's house was no better. His parents were busy, harassed people, who left Keith to himself. This was because they had had not one, but two accidental babies, with a third on the way. Keith had an older brother, Kevin, who was twenty and had left home. He had a younger sister Katie, who was four, and a younger brother Karl, who was two and a half. Another brother or sister, who would be called Kim either way, was due in three months. Consequently, his house was full of noise – screaming, crying, puking, wailing, arguing – twenty-four/seven. There was no privacy because Katie followed him everywhere, one finger lodged permanently in a nostril. There was also not much spare money, and the TV and computer were old, and therefore of little interest to the gang. Keith despaired over his parents – not only over the fact that his dad wouldn't get a vasectomy (he'd heard them arguing about it many times) – but also over the whole K-naming policy. His own name was Keith Kenneth Koski, for Christ's sake. KKK. He'd be changing it by Deed Poll as soon as he could.

Ursula's house was nice and spacious, but out of bounds nevertheless. Ursula got good grades, and was a dutiful, obedient daughter. Her parents were very proud of her. She had been bullied by a group of vicious girls at her last school – a prestigious school for girls. Her parents thought that these beautiful, vapid bullies had no doubt taunted their daughter because they were jealous of her intellectual ability. Ursula knew better. They couldn't care less about brains. They had done it because they enjoyed it. They were mean. Now, at her new school Ursula was happy, and had a group of friends who liked her as she was. Ursula never brought any of her friends home, but she talked about them a lot. They were called Geraldine, Laura, Keely and AJ, which was short for Amy-Jo. They sounded like lovely girls, and her parents were pleased.

Finally, there was AJ, who lived with his parents and grandmother. His parents were nice people, and the apartment was a reasonable size, but the one time the gang had gone over there AJ's granny had vanished into her room and hidden there for the evening. They felt like they were intruding.

So, Gerald's house was gang HQ – usually. This morning, however, the gang met at the library, where they had booked a private room, telling the librarian that they were having a study session. In actual fact, they were discussing what to do about Bethany's vampire. Or, Bethany's "vampire", as Gerald put it, making the quote marks with his fingers and rolling his eyes. Ursula had declared a council of war, and they had agreed to hold it somewhere where Bethany could not overhear them. Ursula was all fired up, books about vampires and the undead strewn over the table, her small eyes glowing. Keith was prepared to go along with whatever she decided – he'd made that clear. Lawrence didn't know. He stood mutely, biting his lip. Gerald was sneering, and AJ staring into space. In the end, Gerald made the decision. It was his sister, after all. They would watch Bethany, see if she made contact with this guy, and follow her. If it was nothing, fine. If it was something – well, then they'd decide what to do.

# Chapter Five

Bethany woke up still clutching Mr. Snuggle-Poo. Angry with herself, she threw the toy bunny to the floor. Then she felt guilty, so she picked him up and put him on her bookshelf. His one eye looked down at her reproachfully. She pulled off the flannel pajamas, balled them up and threw them into the corner. She dressed carelessly in old jeans and a baggy t-shirt. Breakfast was next – but that meant facing the dweebs. She sighed. Later today she would talk to Gerald about them. What would be fast? Toast. She opened the door to her room, and padded through to the kitchen. The house was silent. There were no dweebs in the living room. Curiously, she walked down the hallway to Gerald's room and listened at the door. Nothing. "Hello?" she called out. No answer, except a bark from Doofus . Bethany grinned. Finally, she had the whole house to herself!

The kitchen clock showed that it was almost eleven o'clock. Sighing, she decided she would try Sam one more time. Surely he had to respond to her messages sooner or later. Still no answer – and so she left her name and number yet again, urging him to call.

She made herself toast and coffee, and took them through to the living room. Her brother's extensive collection of DVDs was on a low shelf under the massive TV. What did she feel like watching? Ah – Buffy. She chose a Spike-heavy episode, and inserted the disk in the player. Most girls fancied Angel, she knew. Not Bethany. Spike was more like it – all wiry muscles and menace. And a British accent...

She ate her breakfast, then got out her sketch pad and began doodling. She needed to work on more designs for her portfolio. As she drew, she watched three more Buffies, and idly began to imagine what it would be like to have sex with Spike.

#

Sam woke with a start. He couldn't breath. The inside of his mouth tasted like mildew and his lungs felt ragged. He staggered into the bathroom, took a big swig of minty mouthwash and swilled it around. Suddenly he began coughing and spluttering. Oh God, what now? Was he going to choke to death on mouthwash? But he continued to cough, and cough, and cough, his abdominal muscles spasming. A lump of...something... made its way up his esophagus and shot out into the sink. His eyes widened in horror. Oh my god, was that a turd? He poked the thing incredulously with his index finger. Nope, not a turd. It was a compact cylinder of hair. When Sam was a kid, his family had looked after his cousin's Persian cat for a few months, so he recognized the object. It was a furball. What the hell?

Disgustedly, Sam transferred the thing from the sink to the toilet and flushed it away. Then he swilled out the sink and washed his hands. He still felt terrible, but at least his chest was looser now. He examined himself in the mirror. Long silky gray hairs were plastered around his nose and mouth. Grunting, he washed them off. He walked back into the bedroom and was astonished to discover a cat lying on his bed, regarding him. It had long ragged gray fur. He stared at it, dumbfounded. The cat yawned. Sam then noticed the open window, and his bedside clock, which read 12pm. Noon! He'd overslept. He must have been dead to the world...

Dead to the world? Slowly, realization dawned on Sam. The pain in his chest... The hairball... The fur on his face... The missing time... The cat. "You little shit," Sam said softly to the cat. "You climbed in through my window, lay down on my face and... and suffocated me." The cat looked lovingly at Sam. It rolled over on its back, exposing a scrawny belly. Sam sighed as he sat down on the bed. He scratched the proffered belly. "I expect it wasn't your fault," he said to the cat. "These things just happen to me." He scooped the cat up and deposited it on the windowsill. "Go home," he told it, giving it a little push. The cat wouldn't budge. It launched itself off the windowsill, back onto the bed, gave Sam a haughty look, curled into a ball and fell asleep. "Oh, suit yourself," Sam snapped at it. "I have work to do."

Boy, did he have work to do. He thought of that fat advance just longing to be in his bank account and imagined it vanishing in a wisp of smoke. Unless he made the changes they'd agreed on, the producers would move on. It had taken so long to get anyone to read his screenplay. He couldn't start again. Plus he'd get a reputation for being unprofessional. Sam groaned. He'd lost so much time worrying about losing time.

There was another message from Bethany, again asking him to call her, again saying she had seen him die, again offering to be "what he needed". Whatever that meant. He knew he had to phone her back, but couldn't face it. This time she had called him "my dark lord". Weird.

He pulled out his laptop, and opened the script document. Of course, he couldn't get to work on an empty stomach, and once again he was famished. So he ate four large spoonfuls of peanut butter, and sloshed down an instant coffee, no milk. Hmm, he needed to get some groceries in. That was another thing all this missing time was interfering with – his chores. Maybe he should just do those dirty dishes before they got out of hand. He did the dishes, telling himself that he'd work just as soon as he'd finished.

But first he should check on the cat. It was still on his bed, still asleep. He woke it up and encouraged it to climb on his lap for a cuddle, pretending, of course, that it was the cat's idea. Well, now he had to stay there, didn't he? After about ten minutes, the cat jumped down, and walked through his apartment into the kitchen. It stared at the fridge and mewed.

"Huh," said Sam. He opened the fridge and searched through the detritus of near-empty jars and questionable vegetables until he found a cube of cheddar. He scraped the mold off it and offered it to the cat. The cat sniffed it suspiciously, then tentatively chewed at one corner. It looked awkward, so Sam took the cube back and grated it onto a plate. Then he put the plate down for the cat and watched it eat the grated cheese. Then he watched it lick the plate, its lips, its paws and its whole body. Finally, it walked back to the bedroom and lay down for another nap.

Alright. No more excuses. He sat down again at his desk, regarding his laptop with a mixture of resignation and despair. He hated editing, but boy did he need the money now. He sighed, and his fingers moved over the keyboard. An hour later, the cat came through and began to wind sinuous figure-eights around his legs, meowing plaintively. Sam's eyes felt blurry and his back was sore from hunching over the screen. He supposed now that he had money coming he should invest in a desktop PC and ergonomic chair. He'd managed to erase three hundred words and add seventeen. It was a start.

He put the laptop into hibernation mode, shook himself and walked through to the kitchen. The cat was waiting for him at the fridge. Sam groaned. There was nothing to eat, and nothing to drink in the whole house. Even the instant coffee was all out. He patted the cat on the head, then trudged back through to the bedroom to get his shoes and wallet. Nothing else for it, he would have to go shopping. As he picked up his keys from the table in the hall, the phone looked at him accusingly. He supposed he had better call Bethany back. He steeled himself, entered her phone number, and was relieved when the phone rang several times and then went to voicemail.

"Hello Bethany. It's Sam. Thanks for calling me. Listen, when we met the other night I was...having a pretty rough time, what with the mugger and all. I'm not sure what you mean about coming back from the dead. Heh heh, a joke I guess. Anyway, I'm sorry, but my lifestyle at the moment isn't really conducive to dating. You're very pretty, and you seem nice, and maybe you should find someone..." he started to say normal, then changed his mind. Normal wouldn't suit this girl. "Someone else. Okay? Okay, well, bye." There. That ought to do it. Now he really had to get to get some shopping done.

#

Bethany was on her fifth Buffy. It was the one where Spike and Buffy finally hook up. She groaned as she watched the actor James Marsters stripping of his shirt. How long since she'd had sex? Days... Two weeks maybe. She felt the heavy ache in her groin. Sighing, she paused the DVD, and went back to her bedroom, closing the door firmly on Doofus. She took off her jeans and underwear and crawled into bed, then got out again and put Mr. Snuggle-Poo into the laundry hamper. She got back in the bed and reached into the drawer for her vibrator. It would have been nice to have taken it back through to the living room, where the DVD was, but ugh, what if the dweebs came back? Besides, it was only Spike she wanted to see, not the blonde bimbo Buffy panting and puffing away. She conjured up an image of Spike, ambushing her in an alleyway, and moaned as the image of him morphed into Sam. Five minutes later, her cellphone rang. "Shit!" cried Bethany. "Shit... oh shit... oh shiiiiiiiiit!"

#

Sam pushed the cart robotically up and down the aisles, stocking up on scriptwriter essentials – instant meals he could nuke in the microwave, chocolate bars, bananas, raisins and coffee. He also had a craving for steak, which was odd, as he'd never been much of a carnivore. Maybe he needed the protein to help with the healing process? He added a dozen large T-bone steaks to the cart. He could freeze them. Toilet paper – he needed that, and of course cat food. He scanned the shelves of pet food, wondering which brand to get, and why there were so many to choose from. Cat food was cat food, right? But no, there were brands for finicky eaters, obese cats, neutered cats, elderly cats. It was bewildering. Finally he spotted a can on the top shelf that had a picture of a long-haired gray kitty on it. The picture looked a lot like his cat. It would do. He stretched a hand out and felt warm fingertips brush his. A woman was reaching for the same can.

"Sorry," she said, blushing and taking the next can over. "My cat won't eat anything but this stuff. I've tried the more expensive brands, but no, it's store-brand or nothing. She smiled and looked at Sam expectantly. When he didn't say anything, she went on. "Maybe it contains only the juiciest parts of the horse? The tendons and eyeballs I expect."

Sam smiled back. She was pretty, with big blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. He glanced in her basket. There was a Lean-Cuisine-health-meal for one – a good sign that, she probably lived alone. Carrots, broccoli, orange juice. And now cat food. Sam was suddenly aware that he hadn't answered her. "Oh, my cat's the same," he said. "He'll only eat this brand."

The woman laughed. "They've got us well-trained. So what's your cat's name?"

"Um," Sam said. He hadn't given the cat a name yet, but that would sound stupid to admit. Now his mind was blank. He stared into her shopping basket. "OJ," he blurted.

She screwed up her nose. "Like OJ Simpson?"

"No," Sam said quickly. "Like – orange juice, or... Oh Jeez."

The woman smiled. "My cat's called Karen. I know, it's a dumb name for a cat. My niece chose it. And I'm Jenny," she added.

"Sam," said Sam. "Nice to meet you." She really was very, very cute. Ordinarily he'd ask for her number... but...no, he told himself. You've got a screenplay to write, not to mention that whole missing-time-possibly-because-you've-died-three-times problem to deal with. This is not the time for a girlfriend.

She was looking at him expectantly again, her eyebrows arching hopefully. "Well, bye," he said, lamely waving the can of cat food at her. He turned and trotted down the aisle to the checkout, pausing once to look back. He saw her heave a disappointed sigh as she stacked more cat food cans into her basket.

Back home, Sam unpacked the groceries into the pantry and fridge. He opened the can of cat food and scooped out a smelly blob for the cat. 'OJ' sniffed it suspiciously, then began to eat in earnest. Sam fixed himself three microwave meals, eating them in front of the TV. His eyelids felt heavy. A quick shower, he decided, and then a few hours tackling that script before bed. He padded through his bedroom to the bathroom, leaving the door open so that the cat, who was lying on his bed, could keep him company. He turned on the faucets, undressed, then stood under the hot spray. At once the tension which was knotted in his muscles began to drain away. He lathered up his hair, and then rinsed, letting the suds run down his body. Eyes closed, he put the shampoo bottle back on the ledge, not noticing as he accidentally knocked the soap onto the floor of the shower. As the hot water streamed down his body, he began to think about the cute woman from the grocery store, and his groin started to tingle, then swell. Sam groaned. He began to lower his hand towards his stiffening penis, but then stopped, remembering the cat. Damn! What if it was watching? That would be too weird. Oh well, he'd just pull the bathroom door closed. Sam opened the shower door, and took a step. His foot came down on the soap, sending his leg shooting out. He crashed down onto his tailbone, head snapping back and cracking on the tiles, knocking him unconscious. He lay, folded up in the shower, his head tipped back, mouth open, as the water steadily beat down on him. His mouth filled with water, and before long, Sam drowned.

# Chapter Six

Bethany was furious for herself for missing Sam's call. Maybe if she'd spoken to him in person she could have persuaded him to see her. But the message he'd left was pretty clear – although his laughing off the death thing hadn't sounded convincing.

Damn. She would have to find out where he lived and go around to see him. That was the only way. She tried the phone book, but he wasn't listed. She was in the ensuite shower, wondering how to get Sam's address when she heard the dweebs come in. Aah! The dweebs. Quickly she dried off, and wrapped the towel around herself. As she walked back to her bedroom, she saw Lawrence in the living room, craning his head to the side so that he could catch her reflection in the hall mirror. She casually let the towel slip, exposing one pink nipple, and heard him suck in his breath.

Bethany flicked through the clothes in her closet. What would be most appealing to a nerd? Some sort of spacey leotard, no doubt. She considered several outfits, then grunted. It didn't really matter what she wore. She could be wearing a sack when she went out to talk to Lawrence, and the effect would be the same. No use getting changed twice. She didn't know what to expect at Sam's place, so she chose a relatively practical outfit, consisting of a pair of tight jeans, boots and a black turtleneck.

She passed through the living room, seemingly on her way to the kitchen. As usual, the nerds were watching some lame DVD. She "accidentally" dropped the book she was carrying, creating a loud thump. Doofus howled and the nerds looked up, Gerald and the girl frowning, the other three looking hopeful. She made eye contact with Lawrence as she picked up the book, then gave him a huge smile before continuing on her way. She busied herself making a coffee, and smirked as she heard Lawrence tell the others that he was going to get some popcorn. Lawrence appeared at the kitchen door, then scuttled to the pantry where he began rummaging around. He turned around with a package of Butta-licious microwave popcorn in his hand, to see Bethany closing the kitchen door and turning to face him, her expression coy. Lawrence's mouth gaped, and the popcorn slid from his fingers.

Bethany pouted. "Lawrence," she said. "I need some help, and I don't know where to turn."

Lawrence continued to gape. She really did know his name!

"I know you're really smart and you know all about computers and stuff..." She took a section of hair and began to wind it around her index finger as Lawrence nodded. "I need to know someone's address, but they're not listed. Can you find that out for me? I'd be sooo grateful!" Lawrence's head continued to bob like the noddy-dog in the back window of her mother's four-wheel drive. Beth beamed. She placed a hand on Lawrence's shoulder, and was disconcerted to find it sweaty, even through his shirt. Who gets sweaty shoulders? "That's great," she said, voice still light. "His name's Sam Shore."

Under Bethany's hand, Lawrence started, and she pulled away. "Oh!" Lawrence said. "That's easy. His address is..." Then he stopped abruptly. "I mean... his address...should be easy to find. I'll... do it now."

"Cool!" Bethany said. "You know, you're alright, Lawrence."

Lawrence staggered out of the kitchen like a man who'd just been bopped on the head. As he started down the hall, Bethany heard him yell out to Gerald. "Can I check my email?"

Gerald yelled back that it would be okay, and Ursula asked where the popcorn was. Lawrence returned to the kitchen. "I'll do it," Bethany said, sweeping the package off the floor. She ripped off the cellophane, put the bag on the microwave tray and set the controls for three minutes. Then she and Lawrence stared at each other as the bag slowly spun. Bethany tried to maintain her encouraging smile. Lawrence maintained his gape. Finally the popping sounds began. Bethany got out a big orange bowl, glad to turn away for a moment. At last the microwave beeped. She flung open the door, tore the top off the too hot bag and tipped the contents into the bowl, a cascade of greasy puffs stained an artificial yellow. She thrust the bowl at Lawrence and began to screw up the bag. Lawrence looked pained. "Can I have that too?" he said. "I like to scrape the butter off the sides."

Bethany struggled to keep her smile at full wattage. "Mmm, me too," she lied. "That's the best bit." She gave the bag to Lawrence, and added a little push towards the door. She heard Lawrence deliver the bowl and then lumber down the hallway to Gerald's room. About time!

#

Lawrence sat at Gerald's computer. He already knew Sam Shore's address. He remembered it from before. How long should he wait before giving it to Bethany? Too little time and she'd be suspicious. Too much, and she wouldn't think him very clever. He checked his email anyway, since Gerald might check the browser. There were three new messages, all from list-servers. As he read them, he feasted on congealed salty butter from the sides of the popcorn bag, which he scrapped off with his thumbnail. Next, he played three games of minesweeper. Okay, that seemed long enough.

He returned to the kitchen, and told Bethany the address. He braced himself, hoping desperately for a thank-you kiss. She said she'd be grateful...

Bethany smiled and punched him lightly on the bicep. "Thanks Lawrence," she said. "You're a good friend." Then she bounced out of the kitchen. Lawrence sighed, looking at the spot where she'd been and rubbing his arm. She'd used the "f-word." Slowly, he dragged himself back to the living room. All the popcorn was gone.

"You were a long time," Ursula pointed out. "Surfing for porn, were you?"

"No!" Lawrence protested. Ursula snorted and turned her attention back to the TV. Wesley Snipes was kicking vampire butt. Keith changed seats so he could sit next to Lawrence.

"I heard you talking to her," he whispered accusingly.

"Shhhh!" Lawrence said, but he couldn't keep the smug smile off his face. Bethany had touched his shoulder after all.

"What did you talk about?" Keith went on, suspicion raising his voice a little.

"Shhhh!" Lawrence insisted. "If you must know," he whispered, "I gave her the guy's address."

"What!" Keith exploded. "You gave her his address?" Ursula, Gerald and AJ turned to stare at them. AJ used the remote to pause the DVD.

"Shit," said Gerald. In the silence, they heard the garage door open and the SUV's engine roar to life. "I guess she's going there now."

"Well?" Keith said. "Didn't we say we were going to follow her? We can check up on this guy anyway. If he is a perv, he'll react to Bethany, won't he? Shit – he might even try to bite her – or...worse."

Lawrence felt a surge of fear. What if this guy hurt Bethany? He'd given her the address, so anxious to please that he hadn't thought about Bethany's safety. Yes, they definitely should follow her. He briefly entertained a fantasy. Just like in her sketch, Bethany was held in the clutches of a vampire. But she was screaming, and crying out for help. One side of her pure-white blouse was tastefully torn. Lawrence, (a rippling-muscled Lawrence) charged to the rescue. He was dressed like Indiana Jones. He dragged Bethany away, then plunged a stake into the vampire, turning him instantly to dust. Bethany gasped and flung herself at Lawrence.

"I said, ARE YOU COMING?" Ursula repeated, waving a hand in front of Lawrence. The others were looking at him expectantly.

"Oh," Lawrence said, pulling himself to his feet. They stopped by Gerald's room to grab his digital camera, then piled into his father's van, and peeled out of the garage.

#

Bethany had wasted no time getting across town in her mother's four-wheel drive. Now she was standing opposite Sam's house, watching. There was no movement in the building. She crossed the street and inspected the doorbells. The house was split into four apartments. S. Shore was in the basement. She pressed his button and heard the corresponding buzz from below. She waited. Nothing happened. She dialed his cellphone, and through the apartment walls could just make out its ringtone starting up – Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive." Did he like disco? Well, maybe it was meant to be ironic. Cute. Well, there was still an hour of daylight left. Presumably he was still sleeping the sleep of the undead. Except – hadn't he called her during the day? Maybe vampires had to get up to pee like ordinary people. Maybe he'd called her then.

Bethany wondered if she could get a peek at him. She tried the front door. Locked. She crept around the side and squatted down to the basement window. She was looking down into a dark bedroom. Well, that figured, right? He wouldn't want to be exposed to direct sunlight. She slid onto her belly and pressed her face right up against the glass. Something leaped at her and she jerked away. What on Earth? The thing turned slitted yellow eyes on her and then let out an unearthly yowl. Then it pushed its bulky body against the window, causing the frame to pop open and bonk Bethany on the head. The cat slunk past her and scampered away. Bethany scowled after it. Oh well, at least now she knew the window was unlocked.

Carefully she slid her black-polished fingernails under the frame and lifted it up. Now she could hear water flowing. The shower perhaps? A bright rectangle indicated the open bathroom door. What was that white shape on the bathroom floor? Oh God – a man's foot! Water was running down it in rivulets and pooling on the floor. Something was very wrong. Bethany pulled on the window as hard as she could, but it opened only wide enough for – say – a thin cat to squeeze through. Oh, to hell with it. Throwing caution to the wind, she pulled off her right boot and used it to smash the window. Glass showered down onto the bed below. She held her breath, waiting, but no nosey neighbors came to investigate. The foot in the bathroom didn't move. She popped out the remaining jagged shards and put her boot back on. Then she flipped onto her belly and swung her legs in through the opening. So far, so good. She wriggled her way further into the room, her feet finally making contact with a tall set of drawers. As she scrabbled to get her bottom through, she kicked various objects off the top of the drawers. Her butt finally slid through, leaving her abdomen, resting on the window frame to take most of her weight. She wiggled as fast as she could, her waist easily fitting through. Now one obstacle remained. Well, two technically. Her breasts. She breathed out, deflating her chest as much as possible. This allowed her to move just a fraction, but no more. She was firmly wedged, her bust too large to get through. Shit – was she stuck in here, or would it be possible to squeeze her way back out? She planted her feet on the drawers for leverage, and pushed. No movement. She pushed harder. The chest of drawers began to wobble, and then crashed down. Bethany hung painfully suspended from the window, her breasts squashed against the outside of the frame. After a few seconds, gravity managed to do what her wriggling had not. The weakened window frame cracked at the hinges, sending Bethany plummeting down, the frame still wedged around her middle. She protected her face by flinging up her hands, which connected sharply with the edge of the concrete outside the window. Her feet crashed down onto the fallen drawers, splintering the back of them, and then she staggered back onto the bed, the fleshy part of her left hand sliced under the thumb by a shard of glass. Damn! Groaning, she climbed to her feet. She pulled a t-shirt from out of the smashed back of Sam's drawers and twisted it round her cut hand. Every muscle screamed in agony. She couldn't wait to be turned to a vampire, just for the healing powers alone.

Focusing now, she squelched into the bathroom. As she'd thought, Sam was slumped over in the shower, naked of course, one foot trailing out into the middle of the room. Water was coursing over him. Bethany reached in to turn it off. She shivered – chilly! Judging by the pool on the bathroom floor, Sam had been in the shower for quite some time. She put a hand on his chest. There was no movement, no pulse, and he was stone cold. Unable to resist, she took a peek further down. Hmm – a rather disappointing package, but then he was freezing. She put two arms around him and heaved. He was heavy, and she only just managed to haul him out of the stall before her strength failed her. What now? She looked around for inspiration. Ah – that might work. She grabbed a bottle of shampoo off the shower caddy and murmuring an apology under her breath, tilted Sam first to one side, then the other, squirting a generous amount of shampoo under each butt-cheek. She put the bottle down, wrapped a towel around his torso and then tugged at the ends of the towel. Now she was able to drag him quite easily. She was pleased the bedroom had bare floor boards and not carpet. It made matters easier. Once Sam was in the bedroom, she shut the door on the bathroom mess. She took the comforter off the bed and shook it out, sending glass tinkling onto the floor under the window, and then wrapped it carefully around Sam.

The light was beginning to fade. Hopefully at sunset, he would awaken. That is, if he was truly a vampire, as she hoped. Would he be pleased to see her after all? Bethany crouched beside Sam's body, anxiously studying his lifeless face. The already dark bedroom grew darker. Soon there was not enough light for Bethany to see Sam properly. She got up, crunched past the drawers and over the broken glass to his bedside lamp, switching it on. Sam's lampshade was red like her own, and a rosy glow filled the room, pleasing her. She resumed her vigil. After an hour, the sun had truly set, but still Sam did not wake up. Bethany frowned. Maybe the cold of the shower had slowed him down somewhat. Maybe he needed her help to recover. So be it. If he really was a vampire, she knew what would revive him. She opened his mouth, letting it hang slack, and unwrapped the t-shirt from her hand, gasping as the air hit the open wound. Then she raised her hand above his mouth and squeezed the cut. A thin stream of blood ran down her thumb, dripping off the end of her ebony thumbnail and splattering on Sam's tongue.

Just at that precise moment, Sam's body jerked. He moaned and coughed. "That's right, my dark Lord," Bethany encouraged him, her voice thick with emotion. "Drink." Suddenly the room was lit by a bright burst of light. Sam began to cough harder, and Bethany heard voices at the window.

"Shit – I didn't know it was set on flash."

"You dork! Let's get out of here."

Bethany snarled. She recognized those voices. Sam was still coughing and spluttering, but definitely alive. She looked around at the messy bedroom, suddenly thinking perhaps it wouldn't be a good idea to be here when Sam came around. He might be embarrassed that she had found him in a vulnerable position. He might be angry about the smashed up furniture and window. Did she really want to claim responsibility? It would be best if she left Sam to recover and came back to him later tonight. Besides, she needed to hunt down and wrench the camera from her brother's friends, before they uploaded the shots of her to some website. Those dweebs!

#

Gerald had neglected to check the fuel gauge in the van, and it had coughed and spluttered to a stop halfway to Sam's place. By the time they had decided who would walk to the nearest gas station, dispatched Keith and AJ, and waited for their return, Bethany had more than an hour's lead on them. When they arrived, Bethany's SUV had tipped them off that she was still here. Not wanting her to know they were following her, they parked the van a couple of streets over. Circling Sam's building, Ursula had spotted the broken window twisted out of its frame. They had taken turns crouching down to peer through the gap. All they could see was Bethany on the floor, her back to them, cradling a motionless semi-naked guy, but they continued to watch for more than an hour, just in case. Gerald had been shocked when, during his turn at the window opening he'd seen Bethany feeding her blood to the guy, and the guy seemingly stirring to life. He knew his sister thought she was pretty hard-core, but he'd always thought she was playing at it. He was still staring, stunned, when Lawrence, hearing Bethany implore the guy to drink, wedged his massive bulk in beside Gerald. Then Lawrence took a photo. The camera clicked with a blaze of light.

"Shit – I didn't know it was set on flash," Lawrence said.

"You dork!" Keith shouted at him, spotting Bethany in the bedroom below as her face moved from confusion to comprehension and then anger. "Let's get out of here!"

The group scattered into the darkness, finding hiding places, and not a moment too soon. Bethany came striding out of the guy's house, fury oozing from every pore.

# Chapter Seven

Sam's lungs felt terrible – full and heavy. He coughed hard and a flume of water erupted from his mouth. It did not take away the unpleasant metal taste. What was that – blood? Had he cut his mouth? He probed with his tongue, but couldn't find a wound. The back of his head hurt, but when he reached up and touched it, there was no injury. He sat up, his surroundings coming into focus. His room was a bombsite. His chest of drawers was tipped over and smashed, his window broken, glass everywhere. He was on the floor, near the bathroom door, covered with a comforter, but naked underneath, and his buttocks felt suspiciously sticky. Could I have done all this while unconscious, he wondered?

Oh well, first things first. He needed to get dressed. A t-shirt was lying crumpled on the floor. He opened it out to find it stained dark red with blood. Odd. He didn't remember cutting himself. Last he'd known, he was in the shower. He cast the shirt aside, climbing to his feet and going instead to his closet. The closet mirror revealed a disheveled Sam. Flecks of blood clung worryingly to his bottom lip. He reached inside for a Hawaiian Shirt and khaki shorts, then turned the drawers over to access his underwear and socks. He dressed, calling out to the cat as he did so. It didn't come. Sam suddenly hoped he hadn't hurt it. He hoped the blood on the shirt and – ug, in his mouth, was nothing to do with the cat. Agitated, he opened the bathroom door and stepped in so he could wash his face. He failed to see the soapy mess of shampoo on the floor. His feet slipped. Flailing and cursing he managed to catch hold of the sink bench, keeping himself upright. He washed his face, then grabbed two fluffy towels and mopped up the floor with them.

Sam then set to work in the bedroom. He swept up the broken glass and wood splinters and threw them out. He righted the drawers. Despite a hole in the backboard, they were still useable. He picked up the bloody t-shirt again and examined it. Weird. He shrugged and threw it in the bin. Now the only problem was the open, broken window. His landlord would have conniptions if he saw it. Well, Sam could pay for the repairs when his advance came through. Until then, it would have to be boarded up. Not tonight though.

Sam remembered that he had a cardboard box under the kitchen sink. He kept cleaning equipment in it. Now he pulled it out, emptied it, and with a pair of scissors, cut it down to two sides, unfolding them to make one window-sized rectangle. He found a roll of packing tape, and was just about to secure the cardboard in place when he remembered the cat. He cut a rectangular flap in the cardboard to make a catflap, and then taped the thing in place. It would have to do.

He surveyed the room with approval. His tidying efforts had been successful. But why had he needed to tidy up? Had he gone on some sort of strange, unconscious rampage? He'd got into the shower a bit after five. It was now about ten, so he'd lost at least four hours. He had coughed up a lot of water. A lot. Had he drowned? Had he...died?

He wanted to reject the idea, but his brain kept returning to the bullet. He had been hit in the heart with a bullet, but he was still alive. Not only that, but his body had regenerated itself. Bethany had said that he had been dead when she had found him. Okay, she was a bit obsessive – but why would she lie about it? And if he accepted that he had returned from the dead once, why not three – no, four times? The flowerpot, the bullet, the suffocation, the drowning.

So, if he accepted that it had happened, then the next question was how. How could a man come back from the dead? He didn't know. But he knew where he could try to find out. The internet café down at the shopping center was open all night. Sighing, he put on a sweatshirt, grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil and left the house.

Sam purchased half an hour's worth of internet time, a coffee and a chunky choc-chip cookie, noting to himself that he was once again ravenously hungry. He settled down in front of terminal three. Two spaces to his left, a middle-aged woman was working on what looked like a CV. There was nobody to his right. The row of computers backing onto his row was taken up by a group of Asian student-types, all wearing headphones and playing some sort of combat game. They were shouting to each other in their own language, although occasionally one would scream "Owned!" in English, and another would curse.

He began by googling "immortality". Most of the results were about the quest for immortality. He read more about Ponce de Leon and the fountain of youth than he had ever cared to know. He became an expert on Christ's Holy Grail. He read about various superstitious practices, including cannibalism, which were believed to lead to immortality. He grew more and more frustrated.

Next, Sam tried searching medical sites, using the search terms such as "revived from the dead." There was a lot of hokum about the near-death experiences of patients – tunnels of white light, floating and astral projections. He found out about cryogenics – freezing a body to revive later – but this didn't apply to him. Finally, he found a speculative site which talked about nanobot surgeons. The theory was that in the future human bodies would be filled with atomic-scale robots which would tinker around, repairing damaged tissue, unclogging arteries and exercising muscle. Used properly, the nanobots could make a person effectively immortal. Well – that would explain it. Nanobots could have repaired his damaged skull and heart, pushed out the bullet, and got his lungs working again. Presumably they needed raw material to work with – protein to make new cells – so that would explain why he was so hungry when he came round.

Alright, he thought. Let's say I do have nanobots. Where did they come from? The website said they were only hypothetical. Even if they did exist – how did they get into his body? Was he part of some secret military experiment? But he hadn't had any medical procedures for months. And why him, and why now?

He thought back to the first possible death. He had been hit on the head by the flowerpot. What had he been doing that day? It came to him. That was the day his agent told him he had sold the screenplay. He had gone out celebrating. Bar after bar had become a fuzzy blur in Sam's memory. But one bar stood out – the Shakespeare Inn. That's where he had met that strange guy. The guy had looked deathly pale – sick even. His eyes had been black. Truth be told, Sam had been creeped out by him. Had the weird guy done something to him? Put nanobots in his drink? Given him some weird disease...or weird power?

Shaking his head, Sam turned back to the computer. His time had expired. He paid for another half hour and bought another coffee and cookie. Next he typed in "power of immortality". This time he was rewarded with millions of hits. A few of them were about zombies, but the majority were not. The word 'vampire' jumped out at him and he dropped his cookie in his coffee.

When he had woken up, his mouth had tasted of blood. There had been blood on his lips and blood all over his t-shirt. Could he be a vampire? But that was crazy. He didn't believe in vampires, in witches, werewolves, ghosts and other things that went boo-in-the-night. Supernatural stuff was pure fiction, and paranormal powers a load of crap.

He knew the legends said that vampires were immortal, and could be killed only by the stake in the heart trick or by decapitation. Well, he hadn't experienced either of those, so that didn't rule it out. Cringing that he was even considering it, Sam typed in the word "vampire".

This brought up pages of role-playing sites, a wine company and several movie links. Not what he wanted. He tried "how to become a vampire". Ah – that was better. He found a useful site which outlined three ways to become a vampire. He started to jot notes:

Becoming a vampire:

1. Born that way. Am I the illegitimate son of illegitimate parents? No. Seventh son? No. Third nipple? No. Born with teeth? Not as far as I know. Besides, if I was born a vampire, why is it only manifesting now?

2. Suicide/sinner/heretic. I don't remember killing myself. I haven't committed any violent sins that I remember. I could be considered a heretic at a pinch, but that's hardly rare these days.

3. Vampire's kiss. i.e. I was bitten by a vampire, who turned me. Don't remember this. No scars. Who turned me, and where are they now?

Sam considered. Let's just say that I was turned into a vampire. What powers should I have?

He clicked on one of the website's links, and took further notes.

Powers:

1. Immortality. Well, duh!

2. Superhuman strength.

Sam paused and thought about it. If he was a vampire he was a new one, and maybe his powers hadn't come up to full strength? No, that chest of drawers had been really heavy to lift. He wrote "no".

3. Invulnerability.

Well, not really. I mean, the flowerpot and the bullet and the cat and the shower actually did harm me and did hurt like hell.

4. Shapeshifter.

Again, Sam paused. "Turn to mist," he told his body. Nothing happened. "Turn into a bat". Again nothing. He wrote down "no".

5. Command of Animals.

Maybe, Sam thought. After all, the cat likes me. And he came to me out of nowhere. But he's hardly under my command.

6. Mind control through hypnosis.

Sam turned to the woman next to him. Take off your top, he thought clearly and distinctly. The woman glanced up at him, giving him a nervous half smile, then twisting her chair away from him and continuing her typing. Sam wrote "no".

Okay then, on the basis of the strengths, he wasn't a vampire. What about weaknesses?

Weaknesses.

1. Can't enter a house without invitation. I don't know – I haven't been to anyone's house lately.

2. Can't cross a body of water. I don't know – I haven't tried.

3. Can't stand on holy ground. Dunno.

4. Unconscious during daytime. Yep, sometimes.

5. Can't take direct sunlight. No, not a problem for me.

6. Can't see reflection in mirror. No.

7. Repelled by garlic – no; silver – no; crucifixes - ? wolfsbane – what's this?

Despite himself, Sam was relieved. According to the vampire myths, he was not a vampire. He began to gather his stuff together, then paused, thinking. What are myths if not stories embellished from reality? There has to be some truth out there for so many stories from so many cultures. Maybe vampires do exist, but maybe they're like me. Confused.

So he googled "real vampires" and spent a giddy half hour reading blogs and profiles of supposedly real people who enjoyed drinking blood for fun. Their photos showed them to be a uniformly creepy bunch. Most of the girls had names like Lucretia, Eternity or Raven, the guys invariably called themselves Damian, Vladimir and Drakkar. They all went on incessantly about their "thirst".

Alright, that confirmed it. He definitely wasn't a vampire. He didn't have the thirst. The thought of voluntarily drinking blood made him gag.

In the end, he was forced to conclude that there were only two scientifically plausible theories that could explain what was happening to him. He wrote them down.

1. Nanobots. Somehow, I have become infested with nanobots. When I receive a mortal injury, the nanobots repair the damage, restoring me to health. If true, where did they come from? Could I have ingested them? Who made them and why? Why me?

2. I am nuts. I am imagining the whole thing.

Unfortunately, the second option sounded more likely. But, he told himself, it feels so real. Plus – Bethany saw my body expel the bullet, right? Did I just imagine Bethany too? Maybe. Sighing, and shaking his head, Sam left the internet café. What a waste of time.

#

Ursula, Gerald, Keith, AJ and Lawrence were stuck in the van parked outside the internet café. It was getting late and the five of them were bored. Finally, Sam left, still on foot. Ursula instructed AJ, Lawrence and Keith to follow him, leaving Gerald and herself to investigate the computer Sam had used. They walked into the café, requesting computer three, the one he had been using. The bored clerk waved them on.

"Pah!" said Ursula. "This isn't even a challenge. This place has got lousy security – its all still in the cache. Look – he visited sites called 'so you think you're a vampire' and 'blooddrinkers' anonymous'. I guess it's true," she said triumphantly.

Gerald nodded gloomily. Seeing his sister with the creep had shaken him. "Alright. At the very least the guy's a perv. So, what should we do?"

Ursula blinked at him, her protruding eyes even bulgier than normal. "We need to have a meeting to discuss it. Let's go back to the van, and wait for the others to get back."

Gerald frowned. He didn't much care to be alone with Ursula. She was a little too intense, a little too bossy. She seemed to think that just because she was the only girl in the group that gave her some kind of special status. Like she was queen of the nerds, maybe. But Keith fancied her, and Keith was one of Gerald's oldest friends, so... He shrugged and acquiesced. "Ok."

Ursula smiled brightly and they left the café. She tried to slip her arm through Gerald's but he thrust his hands into his pockets, gluing his arms to his sides, and she gave up. They walked back to the van in silence. Gerald slid behind the wheel, and Ursula took the passenger seat. She tried to engage him in conversation, but he just grunted responses. He twisted around until his back was almost to her, and stared out the window. Both of them were relieved when Keith, AJ and Lawrence returned. Lawrence was out of breath. They clambered into the back of the van and then gave their report. It did not take long. Sam had gone into a bar. Keith, AJ and Lawrence had been too scared to enter, all of them being underage. They had waited outside for about twenty minutes, and then Lawrence had got hungry, so they went to McDonalds.

Ursula had been looking increasingly cross as the report progressed, and now she snorted. "Typical! The going gets tough, so you head to the golden arches? Some vampire slayers you'd make. Meanwhile, Gerald and I have found more evidence. Right Gerald?"

He nodded. "Yeah. The guy's a vamp all right – or at least he thinks he is. Number one – Beth wrote in her diary that she saw him rise from the dead. Number two – we saw him drinking her blood. Number 3 – he was looking up DIY vampire sites on the web."

Ursula's eyes shone. "I think it's conclusive," she said. The other three looked impressed. Keith finally spoke. "Okay. So...um...what should we do then?"

"I should have thought that was obvious," Ursula snapped, thrilled to be in charge, if only because Gerald seemed too depressed to object. "First we get some weapons. Vamp-buster weapons. Then we capture him, torture him, find out who he really is, and where the other vamps hide out. Then...major slayage."

Keith stared at her in amazement. AJ and Lawrence exchanged uneasy glances. Gerald looked at the steering wheel, studying it as if he had never seen it before. Finally, Lawrence squeaked out an objection. "Won't Bethany be mad if we kill him? I mean, she really likes him."

Ursula rolled her eyes. "Bethany doesn't love him, Lawrence. She's just in his thrall. You know, his hypnotic vampire powers. You'd be saving her. Wouldn't that be cool? Saving Bethany?" Ursula knew his weak spot.

Lawrence nodded uncertainly. Then AJ, who hardly ever spoke, voiced his concern. "But... killing him? Isn't that kind of... drastic? Can't we just...warn him to get out of town?"

Ursula made a tutting sound. "We're talking about a bloodthirsty vampire here! One who's already got his clutches on Gerald's sister. It's a staking he needs, and I'm happy to give it to him. So who's with me?" She put her hand up in the air. Flushed with bloodlust, Lawrence suddenly thought that she looked almost pretty. Almost.

Keith immediately raised his hand. Gerald sighed, and lifted his hand as well. He still didn't believe that the guy was a real vampire – but the guy was taking advantage of his sister and so he needed dealing to. Lawrence and AJ looked at each other. "Come on," Ursula cajoled, trying to be coquettish. "We need your ninja-skills, AJ, and your...um... strength, Lawrence. Can't do it without you."

Lawrence and AJ shrugged at each other, then slowly raised their hands. They were outvoted anyway, and these people were their only friends after all.

"Woo-hoo!" Ursula shouted.

"So what's the plan?" Keith asked her.

"We go to his house while he's unconscious, and break in. Hopefully that smashed window won't be fixed yet. We'll take your dad's van again, Gerald. Okay?"

Gerald sucked in a breath, and mumbled, "Okay..."

Ursula went on. "Then we capture the vampire and bring him back to Gerald's room." She looked at Gerald, and cut him off before he could complain. "You're the one whose parents are away. We can't take him to any of our houses. Besides, your garage has a door straight into the house. The only risky bit is getting him from his apartment to the van."

Keith frowned. "What if the neighbors see us?"

"I've got an idea for that. We'll need disguises though."

"What if we get caught? Kidnapping is serious!"

Ursula gave Keith a withering look. "We won't get caught. Besides," she added, smugly. "Once he's been staked there won't be any evidence, except dust."

"What if he wakes up early?" Lawrence whined. "I don't want to get bitten!"

"Which is why we need weapons and repellents," Ursula explained, her patience wearing thin. "Jeez, am I the only one around here who's ever watched Buffy? I don't THINK so!"

The others all nodded sheepishly. "Good – then let's meet up tomorrow," Ursula commanded. "And make a list."

#

Sam's cellphone rang again while he was in the bar. Bethany. Shit, she was persistent. He supposed he would have to talk to her in person at some stage, and explain again that he wasn't interested. She was just too weird. Or maybe he was just too weird. Whatever. It was getting on for midnight. He realized he couldn't spend all night in the bar. The problems he had wouldn't go away with drink. He needed a good psychiatrist, and possibly some heavy medication. But psychiatrists were expensive, weren't they? What he really needed was to prioritize his script writing. Once the money from that was safely in his account, then he'd be less stressed. Maybe the problem would go away. He paid his tab and left. The night had grown colder, and a light rain began to fall. Sam hunched his shoulders and crammed his hands into his pockets. When he had that advance, he'd be able to put a deposit down on a car too. Not that he really needed one. His apartment was on the bus route. He turned onto his street. The wet road gleamed, reflecting the streetlights. Dutifully, he looked both ways, but the street was clear of traffic. He stepped out, foot landing neatly on a piece of newspaper made sodden by the rain. He skidded, wheeling his arms, but could not prevent himself from toppling into the road. Grumbling, and now soaking wet, he pulled himself to his feet. At least the fall hadn't killed him.

He was brushing off wet leaves, still standing in the road, when, without warning, a bus appeared, as if out of nowhere. Through the large front window, Sam could see the bus driver's mouth open and eyes widen as the headlights revealed him. In slow motion, the bus driver applied the brakes, the bus squealed towards a stop, and Sam tried to leap to safety. Too late. With a sickening crunch, the bus slammed into him.

# Chapter Eight

Fuming and pacing, Bethany waited in her brother's bedroom for an hour, before deciding that the dweebs weren't going to show up. She tried calling Sam's cellphone, as well as his home phone, but he answered neither. She went back to his house, but when she rang the doorbell, there was no answer. She looked around the side, and found the broken window replaced with cardboard. She pushed at the makeshift cat door, but the bedroom beyond was in darkness. Maybe he was sitting in there in silence, in the dark, staring at her. Maybe he was out.

That was probably it. He probably needed more blood to fuel his recovery. So where would he go to feed? The only clue Bethany had was the alley where she'd first met Sam. Maybe that was one of his hangouts. Reluctantly, she left his house. A search of the alley once again proved fruitless. She'd been propositioned by an old homeless guy and sneered at by a pair of hookers when she'd tried to ask them about Sam. But there was no sign of him. Alright, she'd go back to his house and wait. Presumably he'd have to be home before sunrise.

Bethany walked back to Sam's street, to be greeted with a scene of utter chaos. A bus was stopped in the middle of the road and two police cars and an ambulance blocked traffic on either side of it. Blue and red flashing lights lit up the night. A substantial crowd of people was gathered behind a police cordon. Leaning against the ambulance's rear tire, a middle-aged balding man in a bus-driver's uniform was sweating and shaking, his face ashen. One of the paramedics was trying to drape a blanket around his shoulders.

Bethany slipped through the crowd until she was standing on Sam's front step. He couldn't be inside, surely, not with all this commotion going on. She knocked and waited. No response. Fine, she'd call him one more time. She hit redial on her cellphone. At once the tinny sound of a cellphone's ringtone floated out into the night air. She at once recognized the song "I Will Survive." Bethany whirled around as the crowd fell into a hush, all staring at the ambulance. A policeman started for the open rear doors. Stunned, Bethany hit the disconnect button, and at once the ringtone stopped. The policeman paused, and then turned and shrugged at his colleagues.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Bethany took a deep breath, steeling herself and then ducked under the police tape and marched up to the ambulance. The same policeman intercepted her. "Excuse me, Miss, you can't..."

She cut him off. "Is Sam Shore in that ambulance?"

The policeman was young and he immediately turned pink, confirming Bethany's guess. "Are you a relative, Miss?"

"Yes," Bethany said. "I'm his sister."

"Oh," said the cop. "Well, I'm...ah..." He was saved by a more senior officer, who came up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Is there a problem, Roberts?"

"No, sir. This lady is Mr. Shore's sister, sir. I was just about to tell her..."

"Thank you, Roberts," the sergeant said, dismissively. He took Bethany's elbow and steered her to one of the police cars, opening the back door, and gesturing for her to sit. She sat. The policeman kneeled down to her level. His gray eyes were kind. "Miss Shore. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but your brother Sam was struck by a bus this evening. He was killed instantly, and we are sure he didn't suffer any pain."

It was what Bethany had expected and she just nodded. The policeman was looking at her sympathetically. "We'd like you to come to the station and make some arrangements."

"Can I see him?" Bethany asked.

The policeman winced. "Perhaps it would be better if you waited until later. Once he's...um...cleaned up."

Bethany nodded again, and swung her legs into the car, pulling the door closed. She watched impassively as the guilt-stricken bus driver was put into the other police car. The paramedics closed up the ambulance and slowly drove it away, siren and lights off. A tow truck arrived and hitched up the bus. Then the junior cop and his partner got into Bethany's police car and they pulled away from the scene. There was an awkward silence. "I'm sorry, Miss," junior cop said. Bethany pretended to cry into her hanky so that she wouldn't have to talk to them. Shit! Why had she told the cops she was Sam's sister? She wouldn't be able to tell them anything about him. And what if he woke up in the hospital or morgue or whatever and started biting people? Did she want to be associated with him? No.

"Can we make a stop so I can tell our brother about Sam?" she asked the cops.

The junior cop twisted sympathetically around in his seat. "Of course, Miss. Where to?"

Bethany gave them the name and address of the club, telling them that her brother was barman there. "I'll just be a minute," she said, slipping out of the cop car and down the steps into the club. It was packed with the same terrible crowd who had been there a few nights earlier. She elbowed a couple of skinny emo girls out of the way to lean over to Lucas, the barman. He was a yummy goth, with spiky hair clumped into checkerboard patches dyed white and black. Bethany had fancied him for a week until discovering he was gay. Lucas nodded in recognition at her. "Listen," she said. "Couple of cops come through here, can you distract them for a while? Oh, and you didn't see me, okay?"

Lucas shrugged. "Okay. Either of them cute?" But Bethany had already gone, ducking out the club's back door and vanishing down the alley behind.

#

The following morning, Sunday, Bethany had cornered Gerald and, twisting his arm up behind his back, demanded his camera. She'd deleted all the photos on it to spite him, not just the ones of her. She lectured him for a while about privacy. He needed to get a life of his own, she told him. He needed to get rid of his dweeby friends. He had just stood there, rolling his eyes until she got fed up.

Then, for the rest of the day Bethany fretted, wondering what had become of Sam. She knew he had died, of course, but didn't believe he would stay dead. After all, she had seen him return to life twice. It was all a question of when he would return to life this time. If it was in the ambulance, or hospital, or morgue – well, presumably he would attack the people around him and make his escape. Something like that would surely be on the news. So she went into her parents' bedroom, turned on their TV, tuned into a news channel, and glued herself to it.

#

The gang spent their Sunday holed up in Gerald's bedroom. The library was closed, and they couldn't risk Bethany overhearing them in the living room. For some reason, she had shut herself in her parent's bedroom on the other side of the house, which suited them fine. The plan was coming together well. Ursula had set Keith the job of scribe. He was at Gerald's computer, typing lists as she dictated them, with the others occasionally chiming in their suggestions.

The first list was headed: Protection.

Under this was a list headed: Tests and Tortures. (Keith had hesitated a little before typing "tortures" but Ursula had insisted.)

Next came: Disguises.

Then: Aliases.

Then: Other things we need.

Most of the lists were easy to complete. Aliases caused a bit of friction. Lawrence had chosen the alias 'Legolas', but Ursula and Keith had teased him about fat elves until he mumbled, "Fine, then I'll be Worf."

Ursula had been considering going with 'Princess Leia', but before she could say it, Keith chose 'Han Solo', and so she couldn't because that would give the wrong impression. She told the boys they could decide for her. They could choose between Lara Croft and Seven of Nine. Gerald rolled his eyes and didn't say anything. Lawrence shrugged, and Keith said "Lara." At which point Ursula decided to go with 'Seven'.

AJ announced that he would be 'Dragon-Master," which seemed acceptable to all, and then they turned to Gerald.

"Code names are stupid," he said.

"Put him down as Angel," said Ursula. Then she thought for a moment. "Maybe I should be 'Buffy' instead?"

Gerald made a growling sound. "Fine," he said. "I'll be 'Neo'. Are you happy now?"

Ursula turned to Keith. "Actually, I quite like the name 'Trinity," she said.

"No!" Gerald snapped. "You're 'Seven.' Let's get on with it."

Ursula had Keith open a new document, and make a table with five columns, headed up with the group's new aliases. Then Keith cut-and-pasted from the first document until everyone had a list of things they needed to supply. She gave them twenty-four hours to secure it. The plan would go down Monday, 3p.m.

#

Sam struggled to consciousness. 'Hotel California' was playing over some tinny speakers, and a female voice was boisterously singing along. "Mirrors on the ceiling...and...pink champagne on ice...And she said...we are all just prisoners here... of our own device..." Someone was poking and prodding at his face. It tickled. He took a deep shuddering breath, inhaling a strange combination of scents – floral perfume, cinnamon donuts...and formaldehyde? He sneezed.

There was a piercing scream and a loud clatter of objects dropped on concrete. Sam's hands flew to his aching head and he groaned and sat up. The screaming started again. Bewildered, Sam looked around. He was sitting on a table in a utilitarian room. The walls were made of concrete and painted pale green. The table he was sitting on was stainless steel and very cold. The screaming continued. It was coming from the corner of the room. A blonde woman was pushing herself as far into the corner as possible, a steel tray held defensively in front of her like a shield. Sam stood up, holding his hands up, palms out. "Shhh," he crooned. "It's okay..."

The woman had run out of breath, and was panting now. She lowered the tray. "You're..." she began. Then Sam saw her look him up and down. "Oh my God!"

Sam looked down. Shit! He was naked. But not only was he naked – he also had an erection. He looked wildly around. A pink cardigan was hanging on the back of a swivel chair. He lunged for it, holding it in front of his groin. "Um, sorry," he mumbled.

"You're alive!" the woman finally managed.

"So it would seem," Sam said. "Although I feel terrible."

The woman slowly lowered the tray. She still looked shaken, but not quite so scared anymore. They stared at each other for a while. Then, making sure to keep her eyes on Sam the whole way, the woman backed over to a storage cupboard, removed a set of green hospital scrubs and threw them towards him. He scooped them up gratefully and dressed as quickly as he could, while she watched him suspiciously, looking ready to bolt at any moment. "I'm not surprised you feel terrible," she said, matter-of-factly, but with a tremor in her voice. "You were dead."

Sam shook his head, smiling disarmingly. "I can't have been. I'm alive and talking to you now, aren't I? Someone must have made a mistake."

Now the woman frowned. Her nose wrinkled up and she looked very cute. Suddenly he remembered having seen her before. It was the girl from the supermarket. She said, "You mean someone is playing some sort of sick joke on me! I could have sworn this morning you had a broken neck, a crushed pelvis and two ribs poking through your chest. Now you look fresh as a daisy and you're even sporting an erection. Who's put you up to this?"

Sam threw himself down on the swivel chair. "I need help," he said softly, and, to his horror, burst into tears. "It's not a joke. I... I don't know what's happening to me."

The woman's face softened. She didn't come any closer, but she did sit, perching on the edge of a desk. "It's... Sam isn't it? The cat food guy? I thought I recognized you when I was putting on the foundation. I was really sorry to see you'd died. I was going to see if I could find out whether someone was looking after OJ."

"Huh? OJ?"

"Your cat."

"Oh," Sam replied. "Yeah, OJ." He looked around the room again. It was all stainless steel, concrete and harsh lighting. "Where am I?" he asked her.

"In the basement of McReedy's," the woman said. "It's...a funeral home."

"Oh," Sam said again, and thought for a moment. "Are you...a mortician?" Sam asked. She didn't look the type. She was really very cute, with strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail, button nose, smattering of freckles and big blue eyes, now looking concerned.

The woman smiled. "No, beautician. Well, actually, I'm a beautician in training. Mr. McReedy lets me practice on the cadavers in exchange for making them look good for open casket services. And I'm sometimes the receptionist, and I help out with dressing the corpses, and sometimes embalming."

Sam reached up to his own face. It felt goopy. The woman flushed. "You...um...might want to freshen up. There's a bathroom through there."

Sam stood up. "You won't leave while I'm gone?" he asked, his voice shaky.

The woman stared at him, considering. "No, I'll be here. Here, take this." She picked up a pot from the floor and tossed it to him. Cold cream.

Sam entered the bathroom, looked at himself in the mirror and yelped. His skin was covered in orange, brown and rust colored stripes, a hare lip was penciled in below his nose, and he had long white whiskers. His eyes were rimmed in black and extended out to his temples. The effect was pretty impressive, but he hastily rubbed cold cream over his face and wiped the makeup off with paper towels. He stalked back into the room. The woman was still there, crouching on the floor, cleaning up the makeup she had spilled. "What was that all about?" he asked her, pointing to his face.

"You were supposed to be Jenny Anydots," the woman replied. "The Little Theater is going to be staging a performance of Cats soon. I want to be the head makeup artist, and so..."

"So, you're practicing on corpses?"

The woman looked chagrined. "Well – no one's complained yet. So...um...what's with the whole rising from the dead thing?" she said, trying to lighten the situation with a bit of humor. "You don't look like a zombie. Thanks for not trying to eat my brains, by the way."

Sam's face fell. A zombie! He hadn't considered the possibility. Was that what he was? Seeing Jenny's expression of concern, he smiled weakly. "It's crazy. Listen, I've just got to tell someone. Do you mind?"

Jenny shook her head. "Go ahead."

"Well," Sam began, taking a deep breath, "in the last week, I've died five times."

He expected her to gasp, or look shocked, but she simply said, "huh."

"I've been brained by a flower pot, shot through the heart, suffocated by a cat, drowned in my shower, and now hit by a bus."

Jenny looked hard at Sam. He seemed serious. She thought maybe it would be best to humor him. "Pretty unlucky," she said.

"But the thing is, none of it should have happened. I mean, what are the chances of a flowerpot dropping on someone's head? And the mugger who shot me was actually walking away when his gun accidentally went off, because he slipped, for Christ's sake. I didn't even have a cat until he turned up on my face. I've never heard of anyone drowning in a shower, and I swear, the bus was nowhere near me when I started crossing, and then, bam!"

"I guess someone upstairs has it in for you," Jenny said, pointing upwards.

"Huh?" Sam said. "Oh... you mean... God?"

"Maybe." She shrugged.

"Then why don't I stay dead?"

"So what were you doing a week ago?" Jenny asked him, smiling the way people smiled at mental patients. "You know – just before this all started? I mean, there must be a reason for it to start now. Did anything weird happen to you? Any old gypsy women give you the evil eye? Did you read any ancient Egyptian scrolls at the museum? Or find a mysterious talisman in an old trunk in the attic?"

Sam shook his head, no. No...wait. A week ago. The first night he died was the night he had gone out celebrating, and met the strange creepy guy. Sam had been seriously drunk... it was hard to remember... But slowly the scene drifted back into his memory. He began to tell her the story.

# Chapter Nine

Almost a week ago, on the very day he had been struck and killed by the errant flowerpot, Sam had got a phone call from his agent. THE phone call. After weeks of negotiation, his screenplay had finally sold, and an advance, a fat, juicy advance, was only a few easy edits away from being deposited into his savings account. Sam was new in town. He wished he knew someone who could share in his good fortune and celebrate with him. He didn't much like drinking by himself but boy – this was something worth celebrating. So he had gone on a bender, getting splendidly drunker and drunker in a series of bars not far from his apartment.

He had gone beyond his limit, and was on his way home to sleep it off. But then as he stumbled by yet another brightly lit bar, he noticed its ye-olde-style wooden sign – The Shakespeare Inn – and he felt a warm glow. Shakespeare was the most famous scriptwriter ever, and his name had survived for centuries. Shakespeare was immortal. And now Sam would be too! His name would live on through the ages. Before he knew what he was doing, Sam entered the bar, flopped down on a stool, and hollered, "Hey, you!"

The bartender turned resentful eyes upon him. "Yes, sir?"

"Champagne!"

The bartender reeled back from Sam's cloud of whiskey fumes. "Are you sure you haven't had enough already?"

"Dude," Sam said, leaning over the bar, "today I have become immortal. I am bullet-proof. I am un-fucking-touchable! Me, and old Will Shakespeare – we're like that!" He raised an unsteady hand to show index and middle finger entwined.

The bartender nodded a minimum-wage nod, and shrugged a whatever-shrug. He gave Sam's scruffy Hawaiian shirt the once-over. "We have Veuve Clinquot at $15 a glass, or domestic bubbly at $4."

"I'll have the Veuve, my good man." Sam replied. He had withdrawn a fair chunk of savings earlier that night. So why not?

The bartender raised his eyebrows. "Yes, sir."

Sam sneezed as the bubbles from the vintage tickled his nose, then took a sip and sighed. "To immortality," he said, raising his glass towards the bartender.

"To immortality," a soft voice echoed beside him.

Sam turned to look at the speaker. Tall, pale and cadaverously thin, the guy sat slouched over the bar, a bottle of beer cupped in skeletal hands. His face was hollow, eyes sunken, and Sam got the impression something was seriously wrong with this guy. Was he on chemo, maybe?

"Jeez," Sam said. "Can I buy you a drink? You look like you need one."

The stickman lifted the beer bottle. "I'm good."

"Oh, yeah, right." Sam stuck out a hand. "I'm Sam, by the way. Sam Shore." He half sang the Fame theme. "Remember my name, 'cause I'm gonna live forever!"

"Really?" said the man. Then he murmured his own name, and offered a hand for Sam to shake. It was like shaking a frozen squid. Sam gasped, and recoiled. "Man, you're cold!"

A faint smile played on the man's face. "You might say I have circulation problems."

Sam nodded solemnly. Well, that would explain the deathly pallor, he thought. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name. Jeff, was it?"

This time, the man's face split open into a wide grin. "Yeah," he said, strange dark eyes boring into Sam. "Close enough."

#

"And that's all?" Jenny said, once Sam had finished recounting the meeting.

"Well, yeah."

"And what makes you think your problem has anything to do with this guy... Jeff?"

Sam thought for a moment. "He was really cold. I mean really – inhumanly cold. He had strange eyes – the irises were completely black. And he gave me a really creepy feeling."

Jenny shrugged. "Creepy feelings are important, I suppose. If he's your only possible explanation, then you've got to investigate, right? So, what are you going to do?"

"I guess I'm going to have to go back to the Shakespeare Inn and see if he's there, or if anyone knows him."

Jenny nodded. "Sounds fair enough. When are you going to go?"

"No time like the present."

"You're not going home to get changed?"

Sam looked down at the scrubs he was wearing. His feet were bare and he didn't have any underwear on. This was strangely liberating. "Oh," he said. "Well, I guess I could go home first. Then he patted his non-existent pockets. "My keys!"

Jenny snapped her fingers. "Of course – your stuff! Gee, I wonder who's got it? I know you arrived naked in a body bag. The hospital staff probably cut you out of your clothes. Usually with accidents, the police keep the valuables until a family member can claim them."

Sam's eyes widened. Shit! Family members! He had forgotten about his family. The other four times he'd died, he'd recovered before anyone had found him and notified the authorities. Jenny had mentioned hospital staff and the police. That meant his death would be official this time, and his parents would have been told. Jeez, his mom would be upset. He'd have to get in touch with her as soon as he could. Except that she'd probably be in transit for a few days. To get back from Antarctica she'd have to fly to Christchurch in New Zealand, then on to Auckland, and get a flight home from there. Crying all the way, he presumed, believing her only son to be dead. Damn!

Okay, what about his Dad? Sam doubted he'd be crying, but he'd probably feel guilty enough to make a show of sadness. New wife Candice was probably counseling him, getting him to 'express his primal feelings'. Bleh. Still, his Dad would be the one to get here first – the one arranging the funeral. So he had to head him off. Maybe Sam could tell him it was all a big practical joke. He'd be mad, but it would stop him making a wasted trip.

Jenny was watching him. "Are you okay?"

"Is there a phone I could use? It's long distance, sorry. I just want to let my Dad know I'm not dead."

Jenny's big eyes softened with sympathy. "Of course. Just over here. I'll sort out the bill with my boss." She led Sam to a telephone hooked onto the wall.

"Thanks," Sam said, and picked up the receiver. Jenny moved away, busying herself tidying away makeup and tools, trying to show that she wasn't listening in, but watching him from the corner of her eye. Sam dialed directory services, and asked for the phone number for Mr. Jeffery Shore and Ms. Candice Bevan. He began to make frantic writing gestures with his right hand. Realizing his predicament, Jenny handed him a lipliner. He wrote the number down on his left arm, the receiver clamped between his shoulder and his head. Then he hung up.

"You don't know your Dad's phone number?" Jenny asked him.

Sam grunted. "We're not that close. Besides, they've moved since I lived at home. He has... a new family."

"Oh," Jenny said, moving away again. Sam dialed the number.

After seven rings, the voicemail picked up. "Hi!" a bright voice sang. "You've reached Candice, Jeff, Marla and Spenser! We're very sorry to have missed your call. Please leave a message and we'll call you back just as soon as we can. Love and peace!" Sam hung up.

"Nobody home," he said in response to Jenny's raised eyebrows. He looked at his watch, but saw only a pale band of untanned skin. Of course it was missing. "What's the time?" he asked her.

"Ten fifteen," she answered, looking at her own sports watch.

"A.M?"

She nodded. Well, that wasn't bad then. Only about ten hours of unconsciousness this time. That's not bad for being creamed by a bus. But hang on – he'd been transferred presumably from a hospital morgue to this funeral home. That would have taken some time to arrange... "What day?" he asked, suspiciously.

"Monday," she said, looking bemused.

He did a quick calculation. He figured the bus had hit him about midnight Saturday. That meant thirty-four hours missing this time.

Shit! Thirty-four hours! Immediately his thoughts went to his unedited script, and the deadline hanging over his head like a guillotine. He groaned. He had to get this death thing sorted out just so he could get on with his life! This missing time was a bitch. The first time he'd died he'd lost, what – eighteen hours? From having a flowerpot smash down on his head. After being shot he'd lost thirty-one hours. He didn't know about the cat-suffocation, because he'd died in his sleep. He figured a minimum of five and a maximum of sixteen hours for that one. After the shower-drowning he'd lost four hours – not much. Now thirty-four hours had gone. He wished the time loss was consistent. Maybe the amount of time he was dead depended on how hard it was for the mortal injury to heal. That seemed to make sense. Drowning, not so hard on the body, a bus, pretty rough. Maybe it also depended on how much raw material was available for his body to use. He resolved to start eating a lot more protein. Although he was once again ravenous, he pushed the thought of his stomach aside. He had more important things to do.

The Shakespeare Inn. That was priority one. The screenplay, priority two. Jenny... well, Jenny was cute, and smart, and practical...but he just didn't have time for her.

"I need to get moving," he told her, "but I wanted to thank you."

She looked puzzled. "Thank me?"

"For not freaking out. For listening. For helping me work out what might be causing this."

She smiled. "De nada. So, how are you going to get home? You don't have keys. Besides, your car isn't here."

"I don't have a car. I guess I'm going to have to walk. And... well I guess I can break into my apartment." He thought about the makeshift cardboard window repair and how soggy it would be by now. "Shouldn't be hard," he said. "Say, where are we? I mean, whereabouts in town?"

"Broadmeadows."

Sam sighed. Great – the other side of town. He could get a taxi or bus, but...shit! No money! No wallet...And even if he did have his wallet, presumably all his bank and credit cards would soon be invalid, if they weren't already. How did you go about coming back from the dead? There must be a process. He shuddered, thinking about the bureaucratic nightmare ahead, and his lack of time to deal with it.

"I've can give you a ride. I've got to teach a fitness class at the gym this afternoon, but I've got a bit of time now. I'll take you home if you like." She smiled, and Sam felt warmed to the core.

"Thanks, you're a lifesaver."

Jenny tidied away the last of the makeup, picked up her cardigan and purse and then led Sam out into a hallway. She locked up the basement room. They walked together along a non-descript passageway, and then up a set of steps and through a door. Now they were inside the funeral home proper. It was a large Victorian mansion. Jenny explained that the two funeral directors were both out on jobs. Luckily, there was no receptionist to worry about, as the directors employed an answering service. She gave him a quick tour of the house. The front rooms had been converted into chapels where services could be held. Buttermilk walls muted the effects of the swirly pattern of the brown and orange carpets. The floor to ceiling windows were concealed behind shutters. There was a low, sturdy-looking table at the front of each room, which Jenny explained would be for the coffin, and several rows of white folding chairs for the mourners. Large cascades of cream colored flowers dripped from occasional tables dotted around the room. Jenny then took Sam down a hallway and past meeting rooms and offices. Sam caught a glimpse of a glossy brochure open on one of the desks. It depicted a range of shiny mahogany and brass coffins. Sam shuddered. He'd been well and truly creamed by that bus. His wounds had healed, sure, and his bones knit back together, good as new. But, he'd been dead for more than a day for that amount of healing to occur. Maybe if he had been out for a just a few hours longer this time, someone would have got around to embalming him. Didn't that mean pumping chemicals into his veins? Surely that would kill him for good. Or maybe not. Maybe he would wake up from that particular death already buried, trapped in silk and mahogany by the weight of earth above him. The thought made him gasp aloud and go still.

"Are you okay?" Jenny asked, concerned. Sam nodded. He was deathly pale. "Come on," she said. "Let's get you home." Sam let her lead him out the back door of the funeral home and into the employee parking lot. As she locked the back door, his mind continued to tick over gruesome possibilities. He had to lift this... curse, or whatever it was. And in the meantime, he had to be especially careful not to die in public. If he could somehow keep his deaths private, and his mortal wounds small, well maybe the worst wouldn't happen.

Jenny led Sam to a small and elderly Japanese hatchback. She unlocked the doors, and Sam got in, his knees up around his ears. "Push the seat back if you like. The lever's under the front." Sam did so, and felt much more comfortable. He did up his seat belt carefully and tightened the strap, wishing that this old model had airbags too. Jeez, now he was becoming paranoid.

Jenny started the car, and backed out of the parking space. At the intersection with the road she waited for a large gap in traffic before easing the car in. Good. She was a careful driver. Sam gave her his address, and she nodded. On the way, Sam steered the conversation towards her. He didn't want to think about his situation any more.

Her full name was Jenny Louise Kirkham. She was twenty four years old and held down two part-time jobs to pay the rent on a tiny one room apartment. She was studying to be a beautician, working part time in the funeral home and also teaching aerobics classes at a gym. She had two younger sisters who both lived at home, with her parents, three cats and a dog. An older sister had two young daughters, and Jenny loved playing with her nieces. She went home to visit as often as she could. She was fond of animals, and hated people who were cruel to animals. She was trying to be a vegetarian, which her parents didn't understand, being Sunday-roast-type people, but they always roasted her veggies separately when she visited, and last time had even made nut loaf for her. She didn't like nuts, but had eaten it anyway. She was partial to sushi, and still had the occasional salmon roll – it was just too good to give up. She also loved freshly squeezed fruit juices, especially a pineapple-apple-lime combo. She enjoyed yardwork, and kept a window box full of bright and sweet smelling flowers. And of course, she lived with Karen, her cat. Sam automatically made a mental note of all her preferences, despite telling himself he had no time to pursue her. But she was so cute and charming!

He wished he was looking, and presumably smelling, a bit more presentable. He was grateful for the ride though. Imagine having to walk all the way across town in green scrubs and bare feet. He'd be lucky if he didn't get picked up by the cops.

Jenny pulled up outside his apartment, turning off the engine. He climbed out, thanking her profusely. She looked a little disappointed. "You know, I don't have to be at the gym for another two hours. I could drive you to the Shakespeare Inn if you like."

"It's not that far," Sam replied. "I can walk."

"Oh." She bit her lip. "Well, I... Can I give you my phone number? I'd like to know if we were right about this Jeff guy. Will you let me know what happens?"

"Yeah, that'd be great."

Jenny dug in her bag, producing paper and pen. She wrote her number down, then leaned across the passenger seat to pass the paper out the open door to Sam. "Oh," she exclaimed. "Is that OJ? He's lovely!" The cat was sitting at the top of the stairs leading down to Sam's basement apartment. When it spotted Sam it began howling.

Sam nodded. "I guess he's pretty hungry. I've been gone two days. I'd better get inside. Thanks again, and I'll call you." He slammed the car door shut, and waved. Jenny answered with a reluctant little wave and then pulled away. The cat glared at him. "I know," he told it. "I could have invited her in, but things are a bit too complicated already. Besides, my body's telling me I need a thick red steak for breakfast, and I didn't think she'd approve."

#

Bethany was frustrated. The whole of the previous day she had wasted watching TV news, but there had been nothing about Sam. No mysterious deaths or strange disturbances had been reported in the city. Maybe, though, something like that wouldn't make the national news. A local news source was what she needed – perhaps a website would have some information. She went through to her parents' study, shifted piles of paperwork to expose their computer keyboard, and booted up the machine. She opened a browser window, and was irritated when a message popped up. "Local Area Connection failed. A network cable may be loose." She frowned. Getting down on her hands and knees, she crawled behind the computer and looked. All the cables seemed to be properly connected, but she jammed them all in harder anyway. She reopened the browser, but the same message popped up. Well, fuck. So much for that. Unless she could get someone to help her...

The dweebs hadn't turned up until well after lunch today, and Bethany had noticed that each of them had been carrying a box or bag. They had slunk past her and into Gerald's room. Lawrence even avoided looking at Bethany, which seemed a bit suspicious to her. What were they up to? Well, it would be easy to find out. She walked past Gerald's door, singing loudly to herself. That ought to launch Lawrence or Keith out the door, she thought. Nothing happened. She went into the kitchen, set the microwave for one second, and then let it beep away, announcing that it had finished. She waited expectantly, but nothing happened. She put one of Gerald's DVDs in his player, turned the volume right up on the stereo and let the Twentieth Century Fox jingle roar out of the speakers for a moment, as if she had accidentally got the sound wrong. There wasn't a peep from Gerald's room. She flushed the toilet. She stood outside his room and coughed. She used her cellphone to call their homeline. She put Doofus down outside Gerald's door, scratched at the door with her own fingernails and then sprinted down the hallway. Nothing.

Damn! She was going to have to ask for help. Not Gerald though. And not the snooty girl – Bethany would rather die! Lawrence then, or Keith or... what was the new kid called? She rang the phone again, disconnected on the third ring, then knocked on Gerald's door. "What?" he shouted, not bothering to open the door. Charming.

"Phone call for Lawrence," Bethany lied.

Gerald opened the door a crack, and thrust out his hand, palm up, waiting for her to pass him the cordless phone. Bethany snorted. "What do I look like, the maid? It's on the table in the hall." Gerald sighed, and opened the door wider so that Lawrence could get out. In the brief glimpse this allowed Bethany, she saw that Ursula, herself wearing a black cloak, was helping Keith to put on some sort of monster mask. The Asian kid was dressed as a ninja and seemed to be practicing some sort of rapid sliding and stabbing motion. Lawrence, when he appeared, seemed to have developed some terrible skin disease on his forehead. Bethany stared at him in distaste, before realizing that the ugly bumps were latex. Okay, so they were playing dress-ups. That was what all the secrecy was about? Big deal.

Lawrence was heading towards the phone, but Bethany snapped at the spandex sleeve of his tight, red jumpsuit, and when he turned to her quizzically, put a finger to her lips and beckoned. He trotted after her open-mouthed as she led him into her parents' study. Bethany thought he looked like a big, happy puppy. One of those ugly ones... a bulldog maybe. She closed the door and asked Lawrence if he could help her with the internet. He sat down on the office chair (which squeaked ominously), his tight jumpsuit straining. He flicked a switch on a little box, and opened the browser. The Google homepage appeared. "So, what can I help you with?" Lawrence asked.

Bethany sighed. "You just did. Thanks." She scooted a confused Lawrence out of the room, acutely embarrassed. She hadn't switched on the modem. Still that was hardly her fault – if the error message says 'loose cable' then that's what you expect, right? It was a point of pride with Bethany that she wasn't much good with computers. At least – she was good with drawing programs and image manipulation. She'd had to study these at art college. But she was not so hot with the internet, or even email. She had had to use it at school, on occasion, to communicate with lecturers, or look up some art history reference. But she tried to limit her exposure. The internet was her brother's domain, not hers. She couldn't stand the banality of people using facebook to inform their acquaintances about the tedious minutiae of their drab lives. People she met always gasped in amazement when the time came to exchange details and she told them she wasn't a member. Bethany also couldn't stand receiving forwarded emails from people she barely knew, usually other women from her class, extolling her to pass on to ten other unfortunate people some drivel about unicorns shitting rainbows in order that she achieve happiness and harmony. She was sick of the countless offers to enhance the size of her penis, buy a fake watch or help a Nigerian general out of a sticky financial situation. But the worst thing of all, far and away the worst thing, was lol-speak. Lol-speak was everywhere. On all the notice-boards at art college (where people should know better), at the library (ditto), at the Laundromat, and at the Chinese takeout restaurant Bethany frequented, morons had tacked up printouts of cute kittens, puppies, fur seals, otters and baby elephants, all captioned with cutesy mis-spelled slogans. Ug! Lolspeak made Bethany want to roll-on-the-floor-barfing-out-loud.

Still. It was a bit dumb of her not to turn on the modem. Now she sat at the computer and searched through the local news stories. To her surprise, she got a number of likely hits straight away. Most of these were "Man Hit By Bus." Yes, yes, she knew that. She read through them anyway, trying to pick up more information about Sam, but they were all very sketchy. One had an interview with a neighbor, a Mrs. Sanchez, who described Sam as "A quiet young man who kept to himself." Nothing exciting there.

# Chapter Ten

Sam easily pulled away the soggy cardboard covering the window and lowered himself through the gap. He was lucky his fellow tenants had no reason to come around this side of the building, otherwise the break might have been reported to the landlord. The cat shot in behind him. The first thing he did was take three t-bone steaks out of the fridge. He sliced the sirloin portion of one into thin strips, then put them down for the cat, who fell upon them in an ecstasy of purring and slobbering. The other two and a half steaks he slapped down onto a roasting dish and stuffed under the grill. Then, while they cooked, he walked back into the bedroom, slipping out of the scrubs. He fancied a shower, but felt a bit wary after last time. Instead, he filled the sink with warm water, and used a washcloth to give himself a sponge bath. That would do. He got dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a snugly woolen sweater and felt instantly better. He checked his voicemail. There was a message from Bethany to call her – fat chance – and lots of hang-ups. Hmmm. Sam then went out the front door to check his mailbox, finding just a couple of bills. He brought them inside, throwing them onto the hall table. The smell of the meat was now making him salivate. He heaped the steaks onto a plate, and got out a knife and fork. The first cut revealed the meat to be very red – uncooked in the center. He didn't care. Ravenously, he stripped each of the t-bones of its meat, devouring every morsel. Must take a lot of protein to repair broken bones, he thought. And I guess I must have lost a lot of blood when the bus hit me.

Thinking about the bus made him remember the next job he had to do. Now his stomach was full he could concentrate on the Shakespeare Inn, and finding that Jeff guy. He pulled out the phone book and looked up the number. He looked at the clock on the microwave. 11:30a.m. Maybe the Inn opened for lunch. He dialed. The phone went straight to voicemail.

"Greetings. Thanks for calling the Shakespeare Inn. Our opening hours are 5pm to midnight, seven days a week. If you'd like..." Sam hung up. Alright, he had about five hours until he could leave for the bar. No guarantees Jeff would even be there, he reminded himself. And no guarantees that Jeff would be able to help him even if he was. He might have nothing to do with Sam's problem. Sam groaned. The cat responded by jumping on his lap and licking his chin. He scratched its ears. So, priority two – the screenplay. He needed to get those changes done, so that the advance payment would revive his flagging bank balance. Except – would his bank account still be open? Presumably his account would have been frozen. His tax number too, and his credit cards, driver's license, library and video cards. As far as the world was concerned, he was now an un-person. Jeez – maybe sorting that mess out should be his first priority. He'd have to prove to the authorities he wasn't dead. How long would it take to get his life back?

Then again – what if he died again in the meantime? He'd have to go through the process all over again! No, first thing was to stop the dying. He couldn't begin to do that for five more hours, so the script came next. I hope my agent hasn't heard I'm dead, he thought. That sort of thing can really hurt a career.

#

You're a scumbag, Lawrence told himself. You're a treacherous, devious, conniving scumbag. You're betraying the woman you love!

When Bethany had clutched at his sleeve in the hallway, put her finger to her lips (full, sensual lips!) and beckoned him to follow, he hadn't known what to think. When she had passed the kitchen and living room, heading for her parents' bedroom, he thought he might explode. Then, she had veered off into their study. Oh, well, it was more than he could have hoped for, anyway. After all, she'd chosen him to help her, not one of the other four. It hadn't been much – flicking a switch wasn't exactly going to sweep her off her feet, but it was a start.

Now as he thought about what they were about to do, he felt guilty. Kidnapping the guy. Sure, he was probably a dangerous perv...but reading her diary made it quite clear that Bethany thought she was in love with him. And if anyone knew that pain, it was Lawrence.

There had been an awkward few moments when he'd got back to Gerald's room and they'd grilled him about the phone call. Who was it? – "My mom." What did she want? – "To tell me off for tracking mud into the living room." Why didn't she call your cellphone? – "She doesn't like to pay for calls." Jeez, they were a suspicious lot. Then again, they were right to be. They were about to commit a felony, after all.

As he sat on Gerald's bed, watching Ursula pack their supplies into a box, Lawrence plucked absently at his StarFleet uniform. It was too tight and the lycra blend didn't breathe. He was already drenched in sweat. Ursula stood up, and looked them over, a general surveying her troops. "Okay," she said. "Let's go."

#

Sam finally pushed the cat off his lap. It gave him a snooty look, and then stalked away to lick itself. He took his laptop out of its case, set it up on the dining room table, and opened his document. He began to type, deleting great chunks of dialog, replacing them with new words, and moving scenes around. He worked for two straight hours, before hunger pulled him away again. He made a cup of tea, and drank that, chatting away to the cat while waiting for two more steaks to grill. He ate the steaks, biting off morsels to offer to OJ. Then, full again, he sat down and re-read his work. It was crap. Sighing, he closed the document and opened an earlier version. Then he got down to it again. This time was hard going. He had to squeeze out every word, and found himself making increasingly more frequent excuses to leave his laptop. Most of these involved making cups of tea, or checking on the cat. He was extraordinarily pleased when the cat decided it needed a cuddle and forced its way onto his lap, draping itself over his right arm and promptly falling asleep. Well, you can't type without both arms, he reasoned. And the cat looked too comfy to move. So he started up a game of solitaire and played it left-handed for a while. After twelve straight games, and to Sam's disappointment, the cat woke up and jumped down, stretching as it walked into the bedroom. No excuse not to work now.

Sam stared at the glowing screen, willing himself to start typing. The cursor blinked expectantly. There was no excuse – except that he had to pee. He got up, and walked into the bedroom. The cat was now asleep on his bed. He tiptoed past it and into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He unzipped his fly then heard an odd scratching noise from the living room. I guess the cat's got up and started exploring, Sam thought. He released his bladder and let flow with the urine. He was in mid-stream when there was a crash from the bedroom. The little shit's broken something Sam thought, hurriedly shaking dry.

Suddenly he froze. He heard people talking.

"You idiot," a deep and creepy voice said. "You'll wake him up!" James Earl Jones? What was James Earl Jones doing in his apartment? Sam shook his head in confusion.

"Nuh-uh," someone contradicted the first speaker. "The goddess wrote in her diary that nothing will wake him before sundown. That's two hours away."

"I wish you wouldn't call her that!" a third voice snapped. Jesus, how many of them were there?

Cautiously, he zipped up his fly and crept to the bathroom door. There were two people in his bedroom – a ninja in loose black pajamas and face mask, and a skinny guy in a 'Scream' mask, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. The T-shirt's slogan showed the standard evolution of man in silhouette from ape on up, except that the last picture was an almond-eyed bobble-headed alien. The two intruders were talking to Darth Vadar's head which was poking through the window gap. The cardboard had been removed. Suddenly the head withdrew, James Earl Jones's voice saying, "I'll bring the dolly in. Get the door." The ninja slunk out of the bedroom. Sam thought about rushing the remaining guy, but the opportunity was lost. The ninja came back, followed by a short, squat orc, carrying a fat wooden stake and wheezing hard, perhaps having some sort of attack. The orc was followed by a fat kid clutching a bottle of water and a crucifix, and wearing a prosthetic Klingon forehead. Jesus, who were these people?

"He's not in the living room or kitchen," the Klingon said.

The Scream guy sighed, and walked over to the bathroom door. He opened it and gave the small interior a cursory look. Sam held his breath. He was hidden by a combination of the opened door and the guy's lack of peripheral vision due to the mask. "And he's not here either," the guy said. "Nice plan, Ursula."

"It's Seven," James Earl Jones's voice said, indignantly. Then a girl entered the bedroom, scrawny and angular, with knobbly knees poking out beneath a too-short flared skirt. Her boney arms held a strange collection of objects – a net, a string of garlic, a crucifix, and...Christ, was that an axe? He couldn't see her face because she was wearing a full-on Darth Vader mask.

"There will be some sort of hidden door leading to an underground chamber, I expect," she said. "Lawrence, I mean, Worf, try the pantry. No, on second thoughts, Han try the pantry, Worf try the closets."

Sam was confused. What did these people want with him? Desperately, he looked around the bathroom. There was only one tiny window above the cistern - no escape there. So, how about a weapon? Soap on a rope? No... Toilet cleaner? No. Shower spray? Maybe. Toilet scrubbing brush? Flimsy plastic, but better than nothing. Germ warfare, at the very least.

"Oh, look," said the ninja boy. "A kitty." Sam saw him sit down on the bed and pat the cat, who pointedly ignored him.

"AJ!" the girl snapped in her Darth Vader voice. "Don't touch that thing!"

"Yeah," the fat Klingon added. "It could be his familiar!"

"That's witches," the girl said scathingly.

"Don't call me AJ," AJ whined. "It's Dragon-Master!"

The girl rasped a sigh out of her helmet. "Fine. Sorry. Anyway, Worf, familiars are only used by witches, not vampires. If anything, this cat is probably a feed animal. You know, for if he gets thirsty and can't be bothered hunting people. That's why it looks so ratty."

"Oh, gross," said the fat boy.

"What if the cat is actually him?" said the ninja. "Can't some vamps change into animals?"

The girl nodded vigorously, the Darth Vadar mask bobbling back and forth. "Yeah, actually, it could be."

"Then what's it doing in the sunshine?" Scream guy pointed out.

"Maybe vampires burning up in sunlight is just a corporeal thing – you know – it only happens when they're in human form," the girl said, matter-of-factly. "I think Dragon-Master is right. It makes a lot of sense. We should take the cat. Hold it, Dragon-Master, and you strap it down Neo. Make sure it can't transform."

That was the last straw for Sam. They weren't taking his cat! Not now he'd got used to having it hanging around. Gritting his teeth, he brandished the toilet brush in one hand, the shower spray in the other. Yelling "Hands off my cat!" he charged out of the room. He bowled straight into the tubby Klingon and smacked the ninja kid in the arm with the dripping toilet brush. "Oww," the ninja howled, releasing the cat.

The cat shot straight up into the air, then landed on ninja boy's head, where it began clawing for purchase. It pulled off the ninja boy's mask and then took off out the open window with it.

"I've been compromised!" the ninja boy yelled, flinging an arm over his face, but not before Sam saw that he was an ordinary, if scared-looking, Asian kid – maybe sixteen years old.

The Klingon grabbed at Sam's toilet-brush arm. He was quite strong, Sam noticed with dismay. At the same time, the Scream guy – Neo – said "Oh for fuck's sake," and pulled off his own mask, passing it to the Asian kid, who put it on, sniveling. Sam saw that dark curls of hair framed Neo's pale, brooding face. He looked oddly familiar.

The girl was rooted to the spot, the fat boy was still struggling with Sam, and the ninja boy was trying to put on the new mask. Sam took his opportunity. He held the shower spray up and tried to pump several shots into the fat boy's eyes. He missed, but only because the boy twisted away, releasing Sam. Instantly, Sam launched himself at the one called Neo, squirting again, and this time finding his target. The boy screamed, his hands flying to his face. With a squeal, the girl launched herself at Sam, and, caught off guard, he tripped over his own feet. Sam went sprawling, and the girl landed on him. The edge of the hard plastic Vader mask hit his nose and pain shot through his head. He lay there, stunned for a few moments, before realizing that his hands were now pinned. The girl had one arm and the orc, who had come running from the living room, had the other. The fat boy was sitting on his legs, Klingon head-piece flapping to one side like a comb-over on a windy day. Sam struggled. The ninja led Neo to the bathroom.

"Hurry up and get the dolly, Dragon-Master," the short orc boy said. "His super-human strength is beginning to overwhelm me."

The ninja boy came out of the bathroom, stepped over Sam, and left the bedroom. He returned, wheeling in a dolly. The broody boy came out of the bathroom, face wet and eyes red-rimmed and murderous. "Tie him up," he said gruffly.

"We're trying, Angel," the short boy said. Sam was not making it easy for them, flailing as they tried to wrap duct tape around his arms. They had succeeded only in painfully ripping off most of his arm hairs.

"Use your weapons, then."

The girl rubbed garlic on Sam. Sam continued to struggle. "Fuck," she said. "Maybe I should have peeled it!" The ninja boy pressed a stout crucifix against Sam's forehead. Sam struggled on.

"Fine," said Neo. "I'll do it." He took the crucifix from ninja boy and bopped Sam sharply on the forehead.

"Oww!" Sam yelled crossly, continuing to struggle. The short orc boy opened the water bottle and poured it over Sam. Sam was now very wet and seriously pissed off. "It's not burning him," the girl said. "Are you sure it's holy water?"

"I got it from a church," said the orc.

"What, the font?"

"Well, no," said the orc. "There was a yard hose round the back."

The girl growled. Finally, Neo bopped Sam again – on the nose this time. He screamed. The pain was intense. Maybe he even blacked out for a second. Before Sam knew it, his feet were bound, and duct-tape was sealed over his mouth. With all five of them now concentrating on his hands, they were soon tied too. Shit. Now he was being strapped to a board, and the board strapped to the dolly. Slowly, he was lifted to upright position. A black cape was tied around him, completely covering the whole rig, and then the girl turned her back to him and removed her mask, revealing...well, the back of her head, really. It was covered in stringy brown hair.

"Thanks, Seven," the orc said, taking it from her. He tore off a piece of duct tape and positioned it inside the Darth Vadar mask, over the eyeholes. He went to put it over Sam but found he couldn't reach. Sighing, broody boy took it from him, and then, for Sam, the lights went out.

Sam felt himself wheeled through his apartment and jerkily up the steps. Then he heard Mrs. Sanchez say, "Can I help you?"

"Hello there," the girl said sunnily. Her natural voice was high and thin. "We've just come to collect this life-size model of Darth Vadar that we bought on e-bay."

Hooray for Mrs. Sanchez! He couldn't move a muscle, strapped as he was to the dolly, and the duct tape prevented him from calling for help, but he moaned as loudly as he could.

At the same time, he heard the fat boy moan too, and call out, "Oh, my stomach!" Meanwhile, the orc was also moaning and complaining of a toothache, and the ninja was moaning and saying that his head hurt. It was a regular moan-fest, and Mrs. Sanchez could not have heard him over the others.

"Oh my goodness," said Mrs. Sanchez. "But... wait a minute. The man who lives in this apartment just died the night before last. Who let you in?" Sam felt himself being rolled along the path and then up a ramp into a vehicle. Someone kicked him hard in the leg.

"Oh," the girl said vaguely. "I don't know. Must have been a relative. Goodbye."

Bodies crowded in around him, he heard Mrs. Sanchez say, "But..." and then a door slammed.

"That was close," a voice said. The orc?

"Nah. She's just a nosy old biddy," the girl replied. "Besides, didn't you hear her? She thinks Sam here died two days ago, which just goes to prove our theories are correct."

An engine started, and the van they were in lurched away. Shit, thought Sam.

#

Lawrence sat in the back of the van with Ursula and Keith. Ursula was looking flushed and triumphant. Keith had removed his orc mask and was staring at her in admiration. Lawrence felt sick. His stomach really did hurt. Fuck – they had just kidnapped someone! Deep down, Lawrence wasn't convinced the guy was a vampire. Firstly, he had been awake in the daylight. Secondly, although the guy was strong, he didn't have superhuman strength. He hadn't tried to bite anyone. His fangs hadn't grown, even though he was obviously angry. Thirdly, the garlic, holy water and crucifix hadn't seemed to affect him.

He wanted to argue this with the others, but he knew what would happen. Ursula would find excuses. She would say that the garlic needed peeling, that the water wasn't really holy, that the crucifix needed to be wielded by a true believer. She would say that Sam wasn't at full strength because it was daylight, or because he hadn't fed recently. She would say that he hadn't actually been exposed to direct sunlight. Ursula wanted to believe because believing gave her power. Keith and AJ of course were enjoying the adventure, and would go along with whatever the others did. Gerald, who might have listened before, wouldn't now. He was furious about being sprayed in the eyes and had landed the guy a vicious kick once they'd got him in the van. Seeing Bethany feeding her blood to the guy had really upset him.

It was funny, Lawrence thought. When he had looked through the window and seen Bethany and the guy together... Well, the guy had actually looked weak and vulnerable. Bethany had been the one with the power. Lawrence had entertained a fantasy about rescuing his beloved from the guy's clutches, but she hadn't looked like someone who needed rescuing.

True, there was something weird about the guy. The old Hispanic lady had said he had died a couple of days ago, but he was alive now. Bethany had seen him expel a bullet. Still, that didn't mean he was a bad person, did it? He could be an ordinary person who just happened to have a weird super power. Like David Banner, or Peter Parker.

Lawrence felt the van slow down and heard the garage door lifting. Gerald pulled the van into the garage. He turned off the engine, came around to the door and wrenched it open. "I think my sis is here," he whispered. "I'll distract her, you get him to my room. If he makes a sound, hurt him."

Keith was nodding keenly and Ursula's eyes were bright. I'm going to throw up, thought Lawrence.

# Chapter Eleven

Bethany was lying on her bed, touching up her black nail-polish when she heard a tentative knock on her door. "What?" she snapped. The door opened, and Gerald walked in, closing the door behind him. He was about to speak when Bethany cut him off. "Are the dweebs here?"

Gerald scowled at her. "You are such a stuck-up cow. Yes, my friends are here. Not that you would even know what friends are."

"Whatever. Listen, I'm sick of seeing them in the living room every time I go through there. Don't they have homes to go to?"

"Mom said I can have friends over whenever I want."

"Meh. Mom-said, Mom-said. You're such a momma's boy. Anyway, I live here too now, and I don't want to see dweebs in the living room, got it?"

"You only live here because you can't make it in the real world, Princess."

"Oh, just fuck off."

There was a bang and a grunt and some moaning from out in the hallway.

"What the fuck are they doing out there?" Bethany got off her bed, being careful not to smudge her wet nail-polish. Gerald moved to block her access to the door. She raised an eyebrow, shoved him out of the way and peeked out into the hallway. The dweebs were wheeling something black and bulky into Gerald's room.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Bethany said. "Look at the carpet!" Gerald saw that the dolly had left two black streaks of tar.

"I'll fix it," he said. "And I'll keep my friends in my bedroom today, okay?"

"Fine," Bethany said. Gerald backed out of the room. Bethany looked at her nails. The polish was smudged. Well, fuck.

#

"Could you guys have been any louder, you think?" Gerald hissed at them. "Keith, put on some music in case the vamp starts groaning again." Keith nodded and started up itunes on Gerald's computer. "You've also put tar on the carpet, and I need to get it sorted out. So don't start without me."

"I'll do it," Ursula offered, smiling at Gerald.

"Fine," he said. "Cleaning stuff is under the kitchen sink." Ursula nodded and slipped out of the room.

Keith had chosen some horrible whiny girl singer. Now Gerald turned to him and said, "Nah, that's not loud enough. He's probably going to scream when we torture him. Put on some Evanescence."

Lawrence swallowed hard. Torture. They were actually going to go through with it. He looked over at the corner of the room where they had propped up the guy still strapped to the dolly, still in the Darth Vadar mask. The guy didn't look scary at all. We're the scary ones, thought Lawrence. Fuck – we're the bad guys!

He made up his mind. As soon as Ursula returned, looking furious for some reason, he said, "Look, I really need to go to the bathroom. Can you guys wait for me?"

Ursula actually growled. "Hurry up!" she snapped.

#

Bethany had peeked out the door to check that Gerald was cleaning the carpet, and was astonished to find the skinny girl on her hands and knees scrubbing foam into the stain. Well, well, her brother had an admirer! She sniggered and the girl looked up at her, staring venom. Bethany held her gaze, smirked and ducked back into her room.

She got out a bottle of nail-polish remover and smoothed out the damaged layer. What a waste. She began to reapply the polish, and had just finished the first hand when there was a soft scratching at the door. "Go away, Doofus," she called out. The door opened and a moon-like face peered around the corner. Lawrence. "Well?" she demanded.

The fat kid licked his lips nervously, then slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. Bethany couldn't believe it. The nerve! She stood up, hand on one hip, unaware that her robe had fallen partly open. The fat kid simply stared. "Get out!" Bethany snarled.

The kid shook himself and then kneeled, actually kneeled, at her feet, head bowed. "Forgive me, my goddess," he said, "but I have got something for you."

Bethany groaned. Three times when she'd lived at home Gerald's nerdy friends had left little offerings of chocolates or flowers outside her room. Now this one had decided to confront her with some hideous gift.

"I can't be long. The others think I'm in the bathroom. We've got the vampire."

"You've got the..." Bethany repeated. "WHAT?"

"The vampire – or whatever he is. Sam Shore."

Oh God! The little dweebs had kidnapped Sam. How completely embarrassing! Sam would never forgive her. He'd never turn her into a vampire now!

"Hang on – how did you guys even know about him?" she demanded. "I saw you following me, but..."

The twerp looked chagrined. With a jolt, Bethany realized. She yanked open her bedside drawer. Her journal was there, but when she pulled it out, the fat kid blushed crimson, confirming her suspicions.

"Where is he?" she said, voice soft and deadly.

"Gerald's room," Lawrence said.

"Is he unharmed?"

"Yes. He's tied up, and blindfolded."

"Alright," Bethany said dismissively. "You may go."

The fat kid sort of bowed and left the room. Bethany gave him a minute and then followed. She burst into the room, kimono flying out behind her. "Hey!" Gerald yelled. Gerald, Keith and AJ were all wrestling what looked like a giant Darth Vadar doll strapped to a dolly, onto Gerald's bed. It took Bethany a moment to realize that this was Sam. Ursula was stationed at Gerald's computer, looking at a vampire website. Bethany snorted at the garish graphics and Ursula glared back at her. "You, outside," Bethany hissed, grabbing Gerald by the collar, dragging him out into the hallway, and closing the door behind her.

Gerald stared sullenly at her. "What?"

"You have kidnapped my boyfriend," she said between gritted teeth, "and I want you to let him go."

Gerald laughed. "Your boyfriend? Hardly. I've read your diary! He won't even return your calls! He's not your boyfriend. He doesn't luuurve you."

Bethany narrowed her eyes. "Alright, maybe he isn't my boyfriend...yet. But when he is – and believe me, he will be – when he is, he's going to find out about this and boy is he going to be pissed. Let him go now and I won't tell him it was you."

"Nuh-uh. We found him, he's ours."

"I suppose your pathetic posse wants to become vampires too. What are you going to do, make him bite you?"

Gerald shrugged. Bethany looked at her watch. "It's four thirty now. There's about two hours until sunset. You've got until then to get him back to wherever you found him before he wakes up."

"But he's..." Gerald began, then abruptly snapped his mouth shut.

"He's what?"

"Nothing. Can I go now?"

Bethany let go of his collar and stalked off, muttering.

#

Lawrence bit his lip. He hadn't expected Bethany to come charging in. He wasn't sure exactly what he had expected, really. Gerald slunk back into his room, where the others looked at him expectantly. "She says we've got two hours to take him back," he told them. "She thinks he's still asleep."

Ursula blew a raspberry. "So what? She's not the boss of you. What's she going to do? Call the police? She wouldn't dare. Then she'd lose him too."

"Let's just get started, okay?" Gerald said, running a hand through his wavy black hair. Ursula nodded her agreement. "Oh, and Lawrence, you big pussy, sit in the corner and don't move."

Meekly, Lawrence obeyed. Keith and AJ exchanged nervous looks. Ursula turned up itunes and soon loud music was blaring through the tinny computer speakers. She nodded at Gerald and he removed the Darth Vader mask.

#

Sam glared up at his teenage captors. Jeez they were an embarrassing lot. The short boy and the Asian boy looked nervous and wouldn't meet his eye. The broody boy was looking impassive, the girl determined and almost gleeful. She would be the dangerous one, he suspected.

He was slightly alarmed to realize that the kids were not now wearing masks. If they had been worried enough to conceal their identities before, why not now? He surveyed the room. It was dark and drab, with piles of washing, DVDs and books on every surface. A sophisticated computer system was the dominant feature. The fat kid sat in the corner, head hung low. The smell of adolescent boy pervaded the room.

The dark-haired boy began to talk. "We know who you are," he said. "You are one of the undead. We have seen you rise from the dead and drink the blood of the living. You are our captive and will answer all we wish to know. We are going to uncover your mouth now. If you call out, you will be punished. If you try to bite us, you will be punished. If you do not answer, you will be punished. If you tell a lie, you will be punished. Do you understand?"

Sam nodded. Stupid kids! The boy turned and gestured to the others. One picked up garlic, one several chunky crucifixes and the other what looked like a 1950s satellite dish attached to a frayed electrical cable and plugged into the wall. He didn't like the look of that. The girl reached across cautiously and yanked the duct tape off his mouth in one swift pull. The pain made Sam's eyes water, and he gasped.

"Right. Question one. What is your real name and how old are you?"

Sam glowered at the boy. "My name is Sam, and I am twenty-six. I am NOT a vampire, and have never risen from the dead, nor have I ever sucked blood."

"You're lying," said the boy. He nodded to the Asian kid, who scooted over and pressed a crucifix against Sam's cheek. Nothing happened and they looked disconcerted.

"See?" said Sam. "This is real-life, not Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Vampires do NOT exist, and I am NOT a vampire, right? So, you have kidnapped an ordinary guy, and I am getting pretty angry about this. You let me go now, and I won't call the police, okay?"

The kids looked at each other, uncertainty clearly apparent in their eyes.

"He's lying," the girl said, finally. She took the satellite dish-thing from the fat boy, and turned to Sam. "This is a sunlamp. It produces UV rays. You know what will happen if I switch this on, right?"

Sam nodded. "Yes, I might get a nice tan in an hour or so."

The girl smiled. "So, if you're telling the truth, there's nothing to worry about." She reached for the switch.

"Wait!" said the Asian kid. "If you fry him now, he won't be able to tell us where the other vampires are."

"I'll switch it on for a moment," the girl said, "and if it burns him, we'll have proof, right?" She flicked the switch. Nothing happened. Frowning, she put the lamp down on the bed, and walked over to the wall switch. She flicked it up and down.

The lamp glowed red as a surge of electricity shot through the vintage appliance, leaped into the metal dolly Sam was strapped to and pulsed through his body, stopping his heart and killing him. Again.

# Chapter Twelve

Bethany sat in her room chewing her fingernails. The fingernails were ruined now anyway. What was she going to do? What the fuck could she do? She couldn't call the cops. For a start, she didn't want the cops to get their hands on Sam. Also, she didn't want the cops coming round to her parents' house. And she couldn't really get her brother into trouble. She'd threatened the dweebs, of course, but there were five of them and only one of her. Still, she could probably get Lawrence and Keith, and maybe AJ onside. Fuck, Sam would be waking up in two hours. He'd probably attack the dweebs. Would he kill them? It had been ten minutes and no sign of them returning him. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

#

"Oh, shit, you've killed him!" Keith yelped. Lawrence's heart lurched. Holy fuck, they'd killed him? Ursula frowned. She cautiously turned off the sunlamp at the wall and unplugged it. Then she poked Sam's smoldering body with a crucifix.

"Well, that was the idea," she said, finally.

"But I thought the body was supposed to crumble into dust," AJ whined.

Gerald carefully put two fingers on Sam's carotid artery. No pulse. Cautiously he pulled up Sam's top lip. No fangs. "Shit," he said.

"But this proves it," Ursula said. "UV light killed him, right, so he must have been a vampire."

"Then why didn't he mind the garlic or the crucifixes, or the holy water?"

"I don't know," Ursula said. "Maybe the garlic needs to be peeled, or crushed or something. Maybe the crucifixes weren't holy enough?" Ha, Lawrence thought.

The group stared despondently at the body. "Whether he was a vampire or not, we've killed him," Gerald said, at last. "But there's absolutely no proof that he was a vampire. And now we've got a body to get rid of. A very human-looking body..."

AJ began softly crying. "We should call the cops," he sniffed.

"Are you kidding?" Ursula said. "Are you kidding? What sort of a future do you think you're going to have with a murder conviction? Do you think Microsoft is on the lookout for killer programmers? Do you?"

"We'll take him back," Gerald said. "We'll put him in his bed at home, and maybe when they find him, it'll look like he died in his sleep."

"Twenty-six year olds don't die in their sleep!"

Gerald shrugged. "Come on. Same plan, in reverse." Keith lifted Sam's head gently and slipped the Darth Vader mask back on. They hauled Sam off the bed, still strapped to the dolly. His head was lolling now, but that couldn't be helped. Gerald opened the door and wheeled Sam out into the hallway and through the living room. Bethany was there, thumbing through a magazine, which was upside down, and fuming. "We're taking him back before he wakes up," Gerald told her.

"About fucking time. You're all a bunch of dickheads," she told the group. Keith, AJ and Lawrence hung their heads like chastened dogs.

They wheeled the dolly out into the garage and bundled Sam back into the van. Gerald ran back into the house, and returned carrying a box of disposable kitchen gloves and some cleaning products. He started the engine, and they drove back to Sam's house, in silence. They sat in the driveway, waiting for passers-by to pass by.

Once the coast was clear, they carried out their tasks efficiently. Luckily (although Ursula claimed it was foresight on her part) they hadn't bothered to lock his front door after they had snatched him. Donning rubber gloves, they maneuvered Sam into his bedroom, untied him, and used methylated spirits to remove all traces of the duct tape. Then they wiped down every surface that might have their fingerprints, and returned the toilet brush and shower spray to the bathroom.

"You know, it doesn't look very much like a vampire's house," Keith said.

"Shut up," Gerald and Ursula growled simultaneously.

#

Bethany waited a few hours before going to check that the dweebs had returned Sam. They had been a long time about it. Only Gerald had come back to the house, and he had stalked straight into his bedroom and slammed the door. Presumably he'd dropped his friends home. At ten o'clock, Bethany decided she had waited long enough. Hopefully Sam was awake by now, and hopefully he hadn't left to feed yet. She had a good feeling. Tonight would be the night. She would corner Sam in his own apartment and explain just how much she desired him. Face to face, he would understand. Face to face, he wouldn't be able to resist biting into the creamy white flesh of her neck... She shuddered.

Dressed this time in a vintage 1970's black catsuit, Bethany once more drove around to Sam's apartment. She walked boldly through the gate, along the path and down the steps to his front door. She knocked, and waited. There were no sounds from within. Damn! Had she left it too long and missed him? She looked around. It didn't look like anyone had seen her, and she was wearing black. Crouching now, she stole around the side of the building to the broken window, and stopped. Someone had fixed it! Lowering herself to her belly, thinking 'here we go again,' Bethany cupped her hands to the glass and was able to just make out a form lying on the bed. Sam. He wasn't moving at all. There was no rolling, no twitching, no struggling with the covers, no breathing. Just that strange, calm sleep of the undead. How much sleep did this guy need? Okay, maybe he did his stalking in the early hours of the morning. He'd be awake soon. If she could let herself in, perhaps lie naked beside him, then she would be the first thing he saw when he awoke, hungry. She scrabbled at the window, but it was locked. Should she smash it again? No, another entry like the last one would be too, too undignified.

Squatting as she was around the side of the house, Bethany didn't see the slim figure of an elderly Hispanic woman walking through the gate. Mrs. Sanchez was tired. She had spent all evening at her sister's house while her sister told her all about her wonderful son, the doctor, and now she was grateful to be back. She didn't like arriving home this late. There were strange people about nowadays.

Mrs. Sanchez was anxious to be curled up, safe in her own bed, but thought it would be best to check up on Domingo's handy-work first. Her husband took care of the property for their landlord, in return for reduced rent. On Sunday, while snooping (although she wouldn't admit it), Mrs. Sanchez had discovered the broken window in the downstairs apartment. Her husband had bought the replacement glass and frame that Sunday on her insistence, and she had charged him with doing the repair job while she was at her sister's. She should have made him do it before she left, but they enjoyed the ritual of watching their morning soap operas together, and then after lunch he had had a nap, and she had gone shopping. On her return she had met those strange kids in the halloween costumes, and they had told her that one of Sam's relatives was in the apartment. She was a bit embarrassed that the relatives had presumably already seen the broken window before Domingo had fixed it. She prided herself on being a good caretaker. This was why she needed to check on it now. She rounded the corner, froze, and then slowly backed away.

Someone was trying to break into the apartment! Quickly, but quietly, she walked back around the front, and on shaking legs climbed her own steps and let herself into her apartment. Then Mrs. Sanchez calmly phoned the police.

# Chapter Thirteen

"Well, I must say, it's nice to have you home for once," Lawrence's mom said brightly, a smile pasted across her face.

Lawrence thought the smile looked very strange. Those thin, tight fish-lips usually turned down at the corners in disapprobation. "Uh-huh," he said, listlessly. Lawrence was feeling terrible. He'd been home for three hours. After they'd put the dead guy back in his apartment, the gang had decided it would make sense to split up. For a start, nobody felt like watching a DVD or playing computer games – their usual evening activity. Lawrence and AJ had thought it too disrespectful, Ursula and Gerald were too keyed up, and Keith was somewhere in between. Ursula had also pointed out that it was still possible the guy would be discovered and that the cops might realize he hadn't died of natural causes (Murderer! Lawrence's brain screamed at him), so it was important they establish alibis, in case the time of death was hard to pinpoint. So Lawrence had gone home to the company of his mother. He sat on the sofa, staring into space, his brain chanting "You're a Murderer, you're a Murderer!" over and over, until he found he was obsessively rocking in time to the chant, back and forth, back and forth. His mother had looked at him sharply. She had been knitting, watching soap operas and doing a jigsaw puzzle on and off while Lawrence had pretended to read a magazine (Murderer!) but now the soaps were over, and here she was regarding him and saying it was nice to have him home for once. (Murderer!) Had he answered her? Lawrence said, "Uh-huh," again, just to be sure.

"You spend far too much time with those friends of yours. It's nice to have some family time – just the two of us. It reminds me of when you were a little boy." (Before you became a Murderer!)

"Uh-huh."

"Oh, I know! We could look through the family photo album. It's been a long time since we've done that, hasn't it?"

Lawrence wanted to scream. No, not the photo album! Anything but! The first problem with the photo album was that every image of his father had been removed – excised like a tumor. In some cases this meant a photo sleeve was empty, its previous occupant burned on the fire, and in others, the photo had been trimmed by exactly one-third, leaving Lawrence and his mother standing in front of two-thirds of the Disneyland entranceway (so that it read 'neyland') or two-thirds of Cape Canaveral, or two-thirds of their old family home. In one case, the photo had been chopped and spliced back together in order to remove his father but preserve a pet dog of theirs, long since deceased. On the left hand side of the photo, the dog sat, his leash held up as if by magic, and on the right hand side, stood an eight year old Lawrence, a disembodied paternal hand around his shoulder. At least his mother didn't know about the photos Lawrence had saved. He had taken them to a photo shop, and had them digitally scanned, then given the originals to Keith to keep safe for him. Lawrence couldn't hide anything in his own house – his mother regularly, but randomly, searched his room for contraband girly magazines, alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs. Lawrence wasn't interested in alcohol, cigarettes or drugs, but he would have liked a few naked pictures at the very least. He had dithered about the photos of his dad, deciding in the end that it wasn't worth hiding them on his computer. He suspected his mother periodically employed someone to come in when he was out and search for hidden folders. Besides which, he couldn't look at photos of his dad there anyway. His mother could see, at all times, what was on his screen. A couple of times he'd been playing an online game when a porn popup had unexpectedly appeared, and his mother had come flying in from the next room at the sound of the first grunting thrust, peering at him suspiciously.

So, the photos of his dad had ended up existing only on Lawrence's cellphone. If his mother had been technologically savvy and realized that Lawrence's phone was capable of storing pictures, no doubt it would have come under scrutiny too. But she wasn't and it didn't. This had of course the additional benefit for Lawrence of finally being a repository for porn. He had several photos of naked girls, and one of Bethany, surreptitiously taken when she was heading out the other day, wearing the rubber flappy skirt. He also had a few snippets of video he'd managed to download – nothing more than about twenty seconds, but usually twenty seconds was all he needed...

The photo album. The second problem with the photo album, of course, was Lawrence's own image. Until about the age of nine, which was when his father left, Lawrence was a slim and attractive child, with a button nose and smattering of freckles. He looked a lot like his dad, which was a constant annoyance to his mom. Once it was just the two of them, Lawrence's weight had piled on. He sometimes wondered why. Maybe it was that his mom, used to cooking for three, had constantly made too much, and then urged Lawrence to eat up everything on his plate like a good boy. Maybe his mom was over-feeding him on purpose to obliterate her son's resemblance to her ex-husband by covering him in a layer of fat. Maybe Lawrence himself subconsciously wanted to be bigger, so he could be the man of the family his mother seemed to need. Or maybe it was that Lawrence, lonely and betrayed, and upset at hearing his mother cry all the time, had taken refuge in ice creams and chips. Probably all of the above. Nevertheless, despite his weight gain, photos of the ten or eleven year old Lawrence showed a fairly cute kid. Then puberty had struck, and the present era of greasy hair, acne, excessive sweating, and, yes, man-boobs, had begun. He couldn't bear to look at the old photos, and hear his mother exclaiming over how sweet he had been once, as if it was his fault he had changed, as if he had chosen to become a fat sack of pus, grease and festering teenage hormones. (Also a Murderer!)

His mother was looking at him expectantly. "Okay, Mom," he said weakly. "That would be nice." His mother smiled, patted him on the knee and got up to go and look for the dreaded album.

#

Bethany stood up. There was no chance of her opening the window to Sam's bedroom. Alright then, she'd just have to wait outside in the SUV until she saw movement from the apartment. She could catch Sam on the way out. She walked around to the front of the building, heading for the gate. In her peripheral vision, she caught a flash of movement and turned to look. There was someone standing on a wrought iron balcony a couple of floors up. It was an old Hispanic woman. Bethany strained to remember the name of the neighbor in the online story she'd read, but it wouldn't come. The woman was watching her warily. Bethany waved and smiled half-heartedly, trying for the friendly smile of a sister who had tragically lost her brother and didn't really want to smile at all but was just being polite. "Hello," she called out. "I hope I didn't wake you. I know it's late. I'm Sam's sister. I just came to get a few of Sam's things, but silly me, I've lost the key. You don't have one, do you?"

The woman stared at her, and shook her head. "Okay, thanks anyway," Bethany called out, and turned back towards the gate.

"No, wait!" the woman called out. "I... I think I have one inside. Wait here while I go look."

Bethany stood on the path, tapping her toes impatiently. It would be great to get a key – then she could curl up on the bed next to Sam as she had planned. But it was cold waiting here, and this woman was taking a long time. One more minute, that's all she'd give her. Dimly, Bethany was aware of a car pulling up and then the sounds of two car doors closing. Footsteps sounded on the street outside. Bethany peeped out the gate. Fuck, it was the cops! And they'd seen her. She had to think fast. She could dash through the gate now and go for the car. No – she did not want to get involved in a police chase. She could turn, run down the path and try to climb over the wall at the back of the property. No - she would probably lose them, but was likely to shred her vintage catsuit in the process. Or, she could stay and bluff it out. Suddenly, she heard the elderly Hispanic woman's voice from above. "Freeze, motherfucker!" It startled Bethany, causing her to pause, just a little too long. A policeman's hand closed around her arm. Decision made.

Bethany was silent during the ride to the police station. She was trying to work out what to say. She had sat in the car with cop A, while cop B had gone in to interview the woman. Mrs. Sanchez, that was her name. Damn – why couldn't she remember before? Anyway, no doubt Mrs. Sanchez had told cop B that Bethany had claimed to be Sam's sister. Fuck, Bethany thought. Why didn't I learn my lesson the first time?

What did the cops have on her, anyway? She hadn't broken in. Could they get her for trespassing? Nah – there were no signs, and she hadn't been warned. She'd told one lie, which wasn't against the law.

She was treated very politely, offered a cup of coffee, which she declined, and was led into a meeting room. It didn't look like the ones on TV. There wasn't a one-way mirror along one wall, a single table, and two chairs. Well, there were two chairs, but they were comfy ones, located on either side of a desk. It looked like an ordinary office. A prism shaped sign on the desk identified the owner – Graeme Potter. A man entered. "Hello again, Miss Shore," he said. "How lucky I happened to be on night shift tonight, huh? Only, I'm wrong aren't I? It's not Miss Shore, it's Miss Summers. Bethany Ann Summers, right?"

Ah, poo. It was one of the cops she'd run away from the night Sam had got hit by a bus. The older of the two – the one with the kind gray eyes. Bethany swallowed. "Good evening, Officer. It's good to see you again – I wanted to thank you for being so sweet to me the other day, and apologize for leaving you so abruptly." She turned on the full wattage of her smile.

The sergeant smiled back. "Well, that's mighty kind of you, ma'am. Mighty kind." Bethany realized that he was adding a touch of hick country sheriff to show that he knew she was acting and could do it to. He regarded her, waiting for her to speak again. Bethany knew this trick too. You let the silence stretch out until it became so uncomfortable that one of you had to break it. He had the upper hand of course. It was his office.

She sighed. "All right, I lied to you. I'm not Sam's sister. I'm sort of his girlfriend. I thought if I told you that I wasn't a relative, you wouldn't let me see him. I don't know him very well yet, so I didn't want to answer your questions about him. And of course," she added, "I was very upset and not thinking straight."

The cop was watching her, a strange expression on his face. "And, tonight? You were seen trying to open a window in the deceased's apartment. A window, incidentally, that had only just been replaced after having been smashed up earlier."

"Sam has some stuff of mine. I just wanted to get it back."

"Sam had some stuff of yours," the cop corrected. "What was so important you had to have it now, late at night? Couldn't you just ask his family to return the items when they gather his effects?"

Bethany contrived to make herself look embarrassed. It wasn't difficult. "It was... some photos I didn't think his family should see. Sam likes nude pictures. There's nothing wrong with that."

The cop's features softened. "Miss Summers," he said quietly. "Sam liked nude pictures. Past tense. I'm sorry, but he's dead, and he's not coming back. You need to understand that."

"Am I being charged with anything?"

"No."

"May I go?"

"Miss Summers, where were you between 4p.m. yesterday and 2p.m. today?"

The question was so unexpected it knocked the wind out of Bethany. "I was at home. Why?"

"That would be 245 Parkville Terrace?" Bethany nodded. "Anyone with you?"

"My brother and his dw...friends were there most of the time."

Now the cop nodded. "Okay. Well, I'm sorry to have to tell you, but Mr. Shore's body was discovered missing from the funeral home this afternoon. They spent a few hours looking for it... him, and then reported it to us. The last time it...he was seen was around 4p.m. yesterday."

The cop was watching her carefully. Bethany arranged her face in an expression of shock, and exclaimed, "But, that's terrible? Who would do such a thing?"

"These things happen sometimes," he said. "It's a strange world, Miss Summers. Well, I won't keep you any longer. Thanks for coming in."

Free to go, Bethany stood, smiled tightly, and turned towards the door.

"Oh, and Miss Summers? No more attempts at breaking and entering, okay?"

# Chapter Fourteen

Sam woke up the next morning in considerable pain. His muscles were stiff. It took a moment before he remembered what had happened to him. Those asshole kids! He flexed his arms and realized that they were free. He sat up and found that was in his own apartment! This was odd... he didn't remember coming back here. He padded through to the bathroom to relive himself. The toilet brush was back in its holder. The shower spray was in the shower. Had he just imagined the thing with the kids? It did have some dream-like elements –Darth Vader for example. And the van – that was a bit too Scooby-Doo to be real.

He heard scratching from above, and looked up to see OJ scratching at the bedroom window, desperate to be let in. He did a double take. The bedroom window! It was fixed, the window frame replaced (but unpainted), the glass intact. He reached up and opened it, letting in the disgruntled cat. Now he looked at the clock. Shit! Eleven thirty-seven. He'd missed his chance to go to the Shakespeare Inn last night. Five hours until it would be open again. He thought about getting to work on his script once more, but just couldn't face it. Not yet. Instead, he put some loud music on, and made toast and coffee for breakfast. He put down a bowl of canned catfood for the cat, and it gave him a dirty look. He stuck his tongue out at it. "You can't have steak every day," he told it. After breakfast, he threw away the pile of steak bones and scrubbed the plates and roasting dish clean of juices. Then he moved through to the bedroom to tidy up in there. The green hospital scrubs were still balled up in a corner where he had left them. He'd have to wash them, and return them to Jenny. Jenny! Hastily, he rummaged in the pocket of the scrubs, pulling out the paper with her number on it. He'd promised her a status report. Well, there was nothing to report, but she was probably curious. He should call.

"Hello?" As soon as he heard her bubbly voice, Sam felt enormously cheered.

"Hi, it's me. You know, the zombie guy?"

"Oh, hi Sam! I'm glad you called." She did sound glad. "Any news?"

"Nah. I missed going to the Shakespeare Inn last night – I think I might have died, though I'm not sure how. I'll try again tonight though."

"Bummer. So, what are you doing now?"

"Well, I should be doing some work, but...well, I don't really feel like it."

"You want to get some lunch then?" she asked him. "I haven't eaten yet."

"Cool," he said, thinking 'no, I should be working'. Instead he said "how about sushi?"

"You remembered!" she said, brightly. "Okay, pick you up in half an hour?"

"Great!"

Half an hour later, Sam was waiting outside his apartment, feeling disconcerted when he'd realized his front door had been unlocked all night. He'd found his spare key, and this time ensured it was locked when he went out. He'd also gone through the house looking for money. There was a five in one of his pants pockets, three dollars in change in the bowl on his hall table, and another fifty cents down the back of the sofa. Could you get a sushi lunch for eight-fifty? What if Jenny expected him to pay for her? But no – she'd been the one to ask him to lunch. She'd be bound to buy her own.

Jenny pulled up, giving a friendly toot on the horn. Sam climbed in beside her. "You look nice in clothes," she said to him, and then blushed. "Not that I mean you don't look nice without them, but... well, you know." She lapsed into silence. Sam smiled reassuringly, and she drove them into town. Traffic was fairly heavy at lunchtime, men and women in suits bustling about. Jenny pointed out the sushi bar as they drove past it.

"There's a parking space," Sam called out, as he spotted a car signaling to pull out ahead of them. Jenny slowed to let the car pull out, and then drove on by the now empty spot. Sam looked at her, puzzled.

Jenny blushed again. "I don't like parallel parking," she said. Eventually they found an angle-park just a block away from the sushi bar. They got out and examined the parking meter. "Hmm," Jenny said, rummaging unsuccessfully through her purse. "Got any change?"

Trying not to wince, Sam handed her the $3.50, and watched her feed the hungry meter. Then they strolled to the sushi bar. It was a self service place. They each picked up a plate and a set of tongs then slid their tray along a metal rail, past hundreds of perfectly formed Japanese tidbits. Jenny loaded her plate with sushi rolls and sashimi. Sam very carefully selected an egg roll and a prawn tempura roll at $1.50 each. They were tiny. Then he spooned himself out a two dollar serving of miso soup. Jenny selected a fresh orange juice from the fridge. At the cash register, Jenny looked at Sam's plate skeptically. "I'm not that hungry," he lied.

"What about a drink?"

"I'll just have water." The petite Japanese girl at the register bent to get him a bottled mineral water. "Er, from the faucet," Sam added.

"Oh, Sam!" Jenny said. "I forgot – you won't have any money will you? I'll get this", she told the girl. "And can you add another couple of rolls to his plate?" The girl took a pair of tongs and reached out for two more egg rolls, plopping them scornfully onto Sam's plate. Sam flushed. The girl rang up the total, and Sam carried their tray to a table.

"I'll pay you back," he said.

"De nada. Oh, I forgot to tell you, the funeral home is in all kinds of shit because your body's gone missing."

A dough-faced woman at the next table gawped at them openly.

Jenny lowered her voice. "I told them I wasn't in yesterday. It's not my usual day anyway – I just wanted to practice my makeup."

They concentrated on eating. Jenny used her chopsticks well, daintily picking up each portion of food. She dissected every piece of sashimi, eating the lump of rice first before savoring the slice of salmon or tuna on its own. Sam concentrated hard on not letting his sushi collapse. The seaweed was stringy, and hard to bite through. Easiest thing to do was pop the whole piece in his mouth.

The meal over, they began to chat again, and Sam found himself talking now about his family. He glossed over the break-up of his parents' marriage (at least how he had felt about it), briefly mentioned his Dad's new family, and then began to talk about his mother. She was a research scientist in Antarctica, and Sam was very proud of her achievements. Jenny was a great listener. He told her about his move to the city, about submitting his screenplay, about all the rejections and finally acceptance. "Only, now I have to make all these changes," he said, "and my deadline's getting closer and closer. I probably shouldn't have come out to lunch. But I'm glad I did."

Jenny smiled, and looked at her watch. "Well, I guess I should get you home then. Besides, I've got a combat class to teach this afternoon, and I want to go back to my place and change first."

Jenny dropped Sam at the convenience store on the corner of his street. After making him promise to call again, she departed with a cheery toot of the horn. Sam walked into the convenience store and bought a can of cat food, a chocolate bar and a can of fizzy drink with his last five dollars, before strolling home. He was halfway down his front steps, when he noticed his front door ajar. Damn – he'd definitely locked it. Had those weird kids come back again? Maybe he hadn't imagined them. Maybe he should call the cops. But no – he didn't want to draw the attention of the police – not while he was officially dead. He lowered the grocery bag quietly onto the landing and again looked for a weapon. There was nothing around the front steps. Sighing, he reached into the bag and removed the cat food can. A whack on the head with this would be painful – or perhaps he could throw it to distract the intruder. He poked the door open with his toe, and it swung soundlessly inwards.

A pile of empty cardboard boxes was stacked in his living room. A man was standing beside them, swinging his arms helplessly by his side, looking around the room, as the cat wound around his legs in figures-of-eight. Sam couldn't see the man's face. His shoulders were slumped and his hair disarrayed, yet there was something familiar about him. The man bent at the waist, and with a groan, hefted the cat into his arms, burying his face in its fur and letting out a sob of despair. Sam wasn't sure what to do. Eventually the man stopped crying, and held the cat out at arm's length, his thumbs hooked under its armpits, letting its back legs dangle. Cat and man stared at one another. "I'm sorry little buddy," the man said, "but I'm afraid he's gone."

"Dad?" Sam said. The man dropped the cat. The cat, startled by the drop, flew into the stack of boxes, sending them flying.

"Sam?" the man whispered hoarsely, turning bleary eyes in his direction. "Is it you?"

"Yeah," said Sam. "It's me." He turned to pick up his shopping and carted it through to the kitchen, popping chocolate bar and drink into the fridge, as his father stared at him in disbelief. "So, what are you doing here?"

"I..." his father began. "I thought... they told me you were dead!"

Sam shook his head. "No – not me. I'm alive and kicking – as you can see." He got out a can opener and began to open the cat food. The cat came flying into the room, skidding to a sideways stop.

"Yes," said his dad. He dragged a hand through his thinning hair. "Yes, I can see. You...uh...you got a drink for your old man?"

Sam rolled his eyes, and slapped a plate of foul smelling meaty jelly in front of the cat. Then he fished out two tumblers and a bottle of scotch, and splashed a measure into each. His dad had now settled onto the sofa. Sam handed him one of the glasses and sat down in an armchair.

"I... I guess they made a mistake, eh? I guess even the cops make mistakes," his dad said, before swallowing most of the whiskey in one hit.

"I guess so," said Sam. "So, that's why you came down here? Because you thought I'd died? What were you going to do? Where's Candice and Marla and Spencer?"

His father grimaced. "I left them at home. Candice is easily upset, you know, and we're going through a rough patch with Spencer – the terrible twos. We thought it was best for him to stick to a routine. He'd just get in the way here. And Marla's been sick with chicken pox she caught at playgroup, so..."

"Uh-huh," Sam said. "So, it's just you."

"I came to pack up your things, and arrange the funeral. But then this morning, I went to the funeral home and they said they'd lost your body! I was going to sue..." he trailed off, looking faintly disappointed.

Sam sighed. "Sorry to screw up your plans, Dad. That would have been some settlement, I expect. Was that why you were so upset?"

"Of course not! I was crying... well, because of you. Because I thought I'd missed out on the opportunity to... apologize to you. It's horrible to outlive a son, you know. Horrible. I thought I'd missed out on getting to know you." His dad wouldn't meet his eye, awkwardly patting the cat instead. "I'm just so sorry," he murmured.

"Oh," Sam said. "Well, apology accepted, I guess."

"I suppose we should be calling the cops and letting them know that you're alive. Call off the search for your body..."

I suppose I should, Sam thought. But it's going to raise some pretty awkward questions. "I'll do it later, Dad."

"Oh... and they phoned me this morning to ask me if I knew some woman they caught possibly trying to break into this apartment last night. What was her name...? She said she was your girlfriend, apparently. Started with a P. Or maybe a B?"

"Bethany?"

"Yeah – that's it! Bethany."

Oh great, Sam thought, now I've got a stalker to add to my problems. Bethany not only leaving messages, but now trying to break in! "Yeah, I know her," Sam said without going into details, and then changed the subject. "So – about this funeral of mine... When was Mom going to get here? She must be pretty upset. Actually – I should email her, or call her now if can – tell her it was all a mistake."

Sam's dad grimaced awkwardly. "Uh...actually, she doesn't know."

"What!"

"Well, she's only got a month left in Antarctica. It seemed a pity for her to come back early. It would take her days to get here, and really, I thought she'd be better off not knowing until she's due to return."

Sam shot up out of his seat, his whiskey sloshing onto his pants. "You're kidding! You just decided not to tell her that her only son was dead! See, this is the kind of shit which made her leave us in the first place!" His dad flinched.

"Well, not telling her was for the best in the long run, wasn't it? Seeing as how you're not dead."

Sam grunted and sunk back into the armchair.

"Anyway," his father said, taking a long shaky sigh, "I'm glad you're not dead. I...I want a second chance, Sam. I want make up for your teenage years, and be a proper dad. I... guess it was the shock of losing you. I want to be back in your life, Sam."

Sam studied his dad closely. He looked a lot older than Sam had remembered – shabby and scruffy, with hair starting to thin, fine creases around his eyes, the beginning of a double chin and small beer gut. He looked tired. Sam supposed that was the effect of living with a demanding harpy like Candice – not to mention two children under five being schooled the Montessori way. Not to mention then finding out that your first born had been squashed flat by a bus.

Seeing Sam's appraisal of him, his dad smiled ruefully. "I know, I look like shit. Candice says my chakras are misaligned."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Alright, Dad. I'll give it a go. You want a beer?"

Over the next three hours, the two caught up, talking more honestly than they ever had before. Sam finally heard his Dad's side of his parents' break-up story. Sam had been fifteen at the time, and more interested in himself, his friends and girls than his parents' problems. His mom had left to pursue the science career she had put on hold at his birth. Sam had assumed that this was because his dad was a jerk. Now his dad was saying that the two of them had simply drifted apart. Sam had continued living at home, occupying the same house as his dad, the two of them passing in the hallways occasionally and grunting. There was rarely any food in the house. His dad subsisted on takeout, and Sam ate many meals at friends' houses. When Sam turned eighteen, the strident Candice had appeared on the scene, suddenly moving in and filling the fridge with macro-symbiotic yogurt and organic veggies. She feigned interest in Sam, quizzing him about school, his friends, his thoughts and feelings. Much preferring his dad's half-assed parenting to the unwanted attentions of this interloper, Sam had moved out. He re-established contact with his mother, and was astonished to discover that she was a charming and intelligent woman. They emailed regularly.

Sam listened with amusement as his father told him about Candice's latest fads. She had gone through several periods of obsession – homeopathy, TV mediums, aura-reading, iridology, reflexology – and her latest gig was tarot cards. She was also trying a new parenting technique – joining in her children's tantrums. Sam listened open-mouthed as his father told him about last week's trip to the supermarket. Marla had wanted a candy bar. Candice said 'no'. Marla screamed and cried. This set Spencer wailing. So Candice had joined in, flinging herself on the ground and bawling at the top of her lungs. Sam's dad had been mortified, especially when a crowd began to gather and security was called. Surprisingly though, the technique had worked. Marla and Spencer had shut up in shocked amazement. Sam's father was just dreading the next time it happened. Sam felt almost sorry for him.

Sam told his dad about his screenplay, and mentioned meeting Jenny, but didn't tell him about the recurring deaths. It was all too crazy.

Half a dozen beers later, his father suggested they grab a bite to eat. "How about hotdogs, dripping with mustard and ketchup. Candice doesn't let me eat them. And... we could take in a movie? Or go out? Game of pool, maybe? Or we could go bowling?"

Sam looked longingly at his laptop. He really had to get onto that script. Not to mention that the Shakespeare Inn would be open in an hour or so. But his dad was looking so hopeful. His puppy-dog eyes were pleading. He really wanted to make it up to Sam. Sam groaned. "Alright. Hotdogs it is, and then one game of pool."

It was awkward at first, but as the beer began to flow, Sam was able to relax. The hotdogs had tasted better than he could have imagined, and in the end the vendor had watched in amazement as he'd scoffed down eight of them, paid for out of the hundred bucks he'd reluctantly accepted from his dad. Thankfully the old man had also been able to restore Sam's wallet, cellphone and keys, reclaimed from the police. His identity as a living, breathing member of society would be harder to restore.

Now the two of them were at a pool bar, not far from the Shakespeare Inn. One game, Sam had decided, and then he'd send his dad back to the hotel feeling happily reconciled. Luckily, a group of three guys and a woman were waiting to use the table after Sam and his dad, which meant a second game was unlikely. Sam had only two balls left to sink, his dad had three. He aimed and took his shot, but the ball bounced in the corner, rebounding back and nudging one of his dad's into perfect alignment. "Bad luck," his dad said, climbing shakily off his barstool. He'd had more beer than Sam. Nevertheless, the shot was an easy one, and the ball dropped neatly into the pocket. Sam's dad chuckled and lined up the penultimate ball. Sam moved around to assess the shot from the pocket's perspective. It looked tricky. Tongue poking out from between his teeth, his dad tapped the white ball sharply with his cue. Instead of rolling along the green felt, the ball leaped abruptly into the air, sailing straight at Sam's head.

Fuck! He thought, seeing a hard spherical death flying towards him. He ducked. Miraculously, the ball soared over Sam's head, cracking into the wall behind, rebounding and then dribbling to a stop on the floor. Sam was astonished. He turned back to the table. His dad was frozen in place, mouth hanging open in shock, pool cue gripped tightly. "Blow me, I've never seen anything like it!"

Sam grinned. Finally – he'd managed to avoid a death. Perhaps his luck was turning. He took a step forward to slap his dad on the shoulder, but his foot came down squarely on the forgotten ball. He lurched forward, flailed his arms, and before he even knew what was happening, his dad's pool cue passed, quite painlessly, through his left eye and into the left hemisphere of his brain. He died.

# Chapter Fifteen

Bethany woke the next morning feeling at a loss. She had seen Sam lying there in bed, so at least the dweebs had returned him as promised. She'd tried leaving phone calls so many times now – but those were too easy for Sam to ignore. The only option was to see him in person. But, the cops had effectively warned her off. If she turned up at his apartment again, that Mrs. Sanchez woman would squeal.

She wondered whether Sam had any friends. Did he socialize? Where did he go? Bethany assumed a vampire would be into hard-core clubs – the type she usually frequented herself, but she'd never seen him at any before. Still, she'd been out of the scene for a couple of months. She'd go tonight, and ask around. It would be good to take a photo, but she didn't have one. Maybe a sketch would do.

So, that left the whole day to kill. Walking into the living room, she realized that yet again the dweebs were not in attendance. It was odd. Every day since summer break began, they had hung around Gerald. Their absence was suspicious. She decided to ask Gerald about it, but My Chemical Romance was blaring out of his room, and on his door he had tacked a sign. "Go Away Bethany." Fine, she thought, wallow in your teenage angst.

She went back through to the living room. It smelt a bit stale, and there were dishes and old soda cans strewn about. She'd agreed to house-sit for her parents, so maybe she should make an effort to keep the place respectable. Deciding to start by airing out the room, she pulled up the blinds, and immediately staggered back her heart pounding. Someone was standing in the bushes, hands cupped to the window, trying to peer in. Shit – it was Lawrence.

She wrenched open the front door and yelled at him. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Shh, shh," Lawrence said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.

"Don't shush me! You were spying on me, you big fat perv!"

Lawrence's face twisted, but he continued to say, "shush."

He looked so pained that Bethany came down the front steps. Now she could see how disheveled he was. There were dark circles under his eyes, his hair was poking up at all angles, and his T-shirt was inside out. All of this was an improvement as far as Bethany was concerned. Especially the inside out T-shirt, which was plain black, the no-doubt dorky message on the front not visible. "What's the matter?" she asked him.

"I need to see you," he whispered, "about something urgent. About Sam. Don't tell Gerald I'm here."

This got Bethany's attention. "Come on," she said. She wasn't prepared to have Lawrence in her room, but took him instead into her parents' study and closed the door. She fired up the computer and found some music to put on. Most of her dad's stuff was easy listening, and her mom only liked Celine Dion and Whitney Houston, but finally she found some Rolling Stones which would be loud enough. And bearable. And just credible if Gerald were to hear her listening to it. Lawrence was sat in the office chair, twisting his hands together. Now that he was inside a closed room, the stench of him was overwhelming. He hadn't showered for a while, Bethany suspected. "Okay," she said, giving him a reassuring smile she didn't feel. "What is it?"

Bethany waited impatiently while Lawrence delivered the preamble. "Okay." He took a deep breath. "First up, you've got to believe me, I didn't want to do it, and it wasn't my fault. It was Ursula mostly. And Gerald a bit, but only because he was worried about you. And Keith a bit because of Ursula. I didn't want to do it, but they never listen to me."

"Go on."

Lawrence took another deep breath. "You know we kidnapped Sam, right?" Bethany pursed her lips and nodded. "We did it because we thought he was a vampire. We read your diary..." he flushed pink, "and found the bullet in the...bedside drawer." He flushed scarlet, and Bethany figured he'd also found the vibrator. Oh, gross – had he handled it? "Plus, when we looked in his window, we saw you feeding him blood. And then we followed him and he was looking up websites about blood-drinking and being a vampire. Ursula said it was our duty to kidnap him, and..." he winced, "torture him to find out what he could tell us about other vampires."

Bethany bit her lower lip, hard. She was furious, but Lawrence obviously hadn't finished talking. She would have to deal with Ursula later. Lawrence went on, beginning to snuffle. "Torturing didn't work..." Bethany smiled – of course not, Sam was tougher than that. "...so Ursula wanted to use a UV lamp..."

At this Bethany cried out. "But that could have killed him!"

Lawrence let out a big sob. "It did! It did kill him! I'm a murderer!" He began to wail. Awkwardly, Bethany patted him on the shoulder. She needed more information.

"How do you mean, killed him? He wasn't turned to dust – I know because I saw him after you took him back."

Lawrence blubbed. "I don't know. She switched on the lamp, held it near him, and it didn't go. She flicked the switch a few times, and the light came on, then he sort of jerked and smoldered a bit and then...he...he was dead!"

"So you took him back home, dead?" Lawrence nodded. "And put him in his bed, dead?" Lawrence nodded. "And you think you're a murderer?" Lawrence nodded again, and let out another shuddery sob, along with a nasal bubble of mucus. He was pathetic. "Why are you telling me?" Bethany asked the wretched boy.

"Because... because you said in your diary that you want to be with Sam. Because I'm sorry that now that can't happen. I thought you should know what had happened to him. If... if something happened to you, I'd want to know."

He swiveled the office chair away from her. She grabbed the arm, and swiveled it back. "Why? Why would you want to know if something happened to me?"

Lawrence looked down at his hands folded in his lap. "Because I love you," he whispered.

"Look up and say that again."

Lawrence lifted his chin slightly. "Because I love you," he told her cleavage.

"Lawrence," she said, an edge to her voice. "My eyes are up here." Then she lifted his chin (chins, she realized) until he had to make eye contact. "Again."

His eyes were pleading with her. She had never noticed before that he had nice eyes. The shadows of a sleepless night highlighted how dark and deep they were. "Because I love you."

"Right," she said, dropping his chin. "When you tell a girl you love her – or anything important for that matter, you look her in the eyes, got it? That's lesson one." Lawrence looked at her in bewilderment. "Now, I need to know – do the others all think they're murderers too?"

"I guess so. At least, AJ and Keith and probably your brother do. Ursula still thinks we did the right thing, as far as I know."

Bethany grunted. "Okay. I'm going to make a deal with you Lawrence, and I want you to think carefully about it, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed.

"Would you like a girlfriend?" she said. Lawrence gasped, and his eyes widened in surprise and hope, so Bethany immediately went on, "No, not me, for fuck's sake. Are you a moron? I mean an ordinary girlfriend – someone you can talk to and go on dates with and who might let you get your leg over once in a while." Lawrence stared at her and nodded.

"Good. Fine. Well, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to... fix you up, and take you to some places where you can meet girls. In return, you're going to help me do some research on Sam."

"But..." Lawrence began.

Bethany held up a finger. "Uhp uhp... I know what you're going to say – and that's the next part of the deal. I will hold up my side of the bargain if you don't tell my brother, or Ursula, or Keith, or... the other one, what I am about to tell you. Deal?" Again Lawrence stared and nodded. Bethany considered him. "Go back on your word and I will destroy you as fast as I create you, got it?" Staring, nodding. "Good. Alright then. Sam's not dead."

#

The shop was called 'Immortal Beloved,' and every piece of clothing in it was black. Lawrence felt he was in a dream. Here he was, with Bethany. With Bethany! The morning had been a whirlwind of activity. First, Bethany had made Lawrence take a shower in her parents' ensuite, then she had sprayed him with some sort of body spray until he thought he smelt like a freshly sanitized toilet. (Living with his mother had somewhat limited his breadth of options for comparative similes.) Next she had quizzed him about his financial situation, and had been pleasantly surprised. Lawrence had a lot of money for a seventeen year old. Some was birthday money from grandparents, but most was from online trading. He bought and sold gaming figurines, and had a good eye for bargains which he could mark up and sell on.

Bethany had rubbed her hands in glee when he had told her the amount, and had announced that their first stop would be something called 'Raphael's'. She had led Lawrence out to the garage and told him to get in the SUV. Then she'd driven them into town, stereo doling out some dark and gloomy music. Lawrence wondered who Bela Lugosi was, and why he was dead. "Lesson number two," she had said. "Develop a taste in music, and get to know something really well. It doesn't matter what, as long as it's not chart. Latin is fine, jazz is fine, classical is fine, old stuff is fine. Not chart, got it? Not chart."

She drove them into town, and found a parking space, which she made Lawrence pay for. They walked to Raphael's. This turned out to be a dark and gloomy hair dressing salon. Assorted dark and gloomy people nodded to Bethany. A pale man with kohl around his eyes and a mass of purple ringlets on his head greeted Bethany as if she was an old friend. Bethany gestured to Lawrence, and said, simply, "Fix him please Scotty. The works."

Lawrence blushed as the man looked him up and down and grimaced. He was led out to a room in the back, and told to take off his clothes. Lawrence balked, but the man simpered, "Listen, Sweetie, you haven't got anything I haven't seen from every angle under the sun. Miss Bethany has said the works, and when Miss Bethany commands, we obey, isn't that right?" He had summed up Lawrence's puppy dog devotion all right. Lawrence stripped down to a pair of holey jockeys. "Those too," the man said.

Then he had made Lawrence lie on a table. Lawrence wondered if he was going to get a massage, but instead, hot liquid was poured on his back. Then cloth strips were laid on the liquid. A pause, and then...pain, like a hundred simultaneous bee-stings. Shit, he was having his back waxed! After an eternity, the man finished with his back, and Lawrence made to get up. The man pushed him gently back down and said in a sing-song voice. "Not so fast, Sweetie. That was back. Next comes crack." Crack? Lawrence thought. Were they going to make him do drugs? Then he felt his butt-cheeks being prized apart. No way!

Yes way. The man once again finished, and Lawrence was allowed to sit up. Feeling humiliated, he made a lunge for his clothes, but the man said, "Not yet. First comes back, then comes crack... now it's sack!"

Lawrence was mortified. The man began humming a song as he spread warm wax like honey on what Lawrence's mom called the gentleman regions. (As in, "Lawrence, don't wash your gentleman regions any more than is necessary.") He recognized the song the man was humming from his mother's My Fair Lady DVD. 'Wouldn't it be Loverly.' The man was nearly finished with the wax, and about to start on the strips, when Lawrence, (thinking about Eliza Doolittle, for Christ's sake) began to feel the first stirrings in his groin. No! No, not now! Think of something else.

Lawrence's penis betrayed him. It sprang to attention. Scotty raised his eyebrows. "Well!" he said. "Who's a big boy then?"

Once his back, crack and sack were hair-free, Lawrence hoped the humiliation would be over. He just wanted to leave Raphael's. Instead, he was taken to a seat in the salon, where a frail blonde woman poked and prodded at his hair, frowning. An hour later, Lawrence finally got his wish, and they left Raphael's after he had handed over a small fortune in payment. Lawrence was now clutching a tiny bag containing the world's most valuable shampoo (vital for hair as greasy as his,) and something called fudge, which sounded quite promising to Lawrence, but which was actually a styling product. His hair felt mucky. It was black now, and stood up in clumps. Before they left, Scotty had pulled Bethany aside, and whispered something in her ear. Bethany had smiled and nodded. Oh please, Lawrence thought. Don't be telling her about the erection.

But she had dragged him next to a department store. There, she told him that Scotty had told her about the holey jockeys. "Lesson three, Lawrence. Clean underwear, every day. Throw it out when it gets holes. Or a hole, singular. Never, never wear jockeys. Boxers only, and never a novelty print. Plain black, cotton, or possibly silk. No writing on the waistband, especially not 'Playboy.' Got it?" He got it. He bought seven pairs, and some new socks too (plain black, cotton, no novelty), some acne concealer cream that Bethany recommended, and...makeup – a small, black stick, like a pencil. Bethany had insisted.

And then, there they were in 'Immortal Beloved.' He stood there awkwardly while the shop staff feigned bored indifference, but were sneakily looking in wonder at his Star Wars T-shirt, which was no longer inside out. Bethany, meanwhile, cruised around the store, scooping up anything that was sized extra-large. She walked him to the changing rooms and then handed clothing item after clothing item over the top of the door. As he donned each one, she made him open the door so that she could approve or disapprove. "Lesson four," she said, while he struggled with superfluous zips and chains. "No clothing item should have writing on it anywhere. No pictures either. No T-shirts with what you think are funny slogans or clever cartoons on them. They are not funny, and they are not clever. Plain dark colors only. No baseball caps, ever. No hats at all. Your pants should fit you properly. No butt-crack showing, even if it is perfectly waxed. And throw out all your white socks and white sneakers. Got it?"

Lawrence left Immortal Beloved with four new tops, two pairs of pants, some black skate shoes and a pair of Doc Martin boots. He wondered what his mom was going to say.

Bethany drove them back to her parents' house. She checked that Gerald was still in his room (he was), and then smuggled Lawrence through to the study. Lessons five and six followed. Five was about eating – and Bethany had made Lawrence buy a platter of sushi so they could practice. "Try to avoid eating in front of someone. If you have to eat, order things that you can eat nicely. Never spaghetti. Don't talk with your mouth full. Take only small bites, chew and swallow, so that if someone is waiting for you to speak, they don't wait all day. Try not to look greedy. Leave a tiny bit on the plate. Don't do things like eat all of the veggies and save the meat for last – it looks weird. Never take the last of something."

Lawrence's sushi unraveled and rice, salmon and avocado dropped onto his lap. He scooped them up with his fingers, and was about to put them in his mouth but Bethany howled, "No!" and slapped his hand. "Never, never eat dropped food. Laugh it off, then clean it with a napkin, but don't eat it. Got it?"

Lesson six was about the art of conversation. The prime rule, it seemed, was to listen eighty percent of the time, and talk for twenty – and most of that twenty was to ask questions. "Don't volunteer information about yourself – let her ask. Don't be a nerd. Don't go on about boring things. You can talk about books, and movies, TV and music, but only to say what you like. Don't go on about it. Don't agree with everything she says – in fact choose something she likes and be a bit mean about it. Never give her a compliment unless she fishes for it, and then only grudgingly. Remember, most girls like guys who are a bit of a bastard. Got it?" Lawrence was beginning to feel overwhelmed. This was bamboozling.

The next lesson, number seven, was how to apply eyeliner. Lawrence balked at this, but Bethany assured him, that with his dark eyes, and new black hair, it was a must. It would make him look like a tortured artist. (They both winced a bit when she said tortured.) The trick was to apply it under the lashes and then smudge. Lawrence had to admit, it did make his eyes stand out.

There followed a lengthy discussion about piercings and tattoos. Bethany, of course, was all for a couple. Lawrence hated pain, particularly the stabbing pain he got in the temples whenever his mother began to rant about what a disappointment he was. So body disfigurement was out. "What about where your mother won't see it?" Bethany suggested. Lawrence thought for a while. A piercing or tattoo in the gentlemen's region wouldn't help him get a girl though. She'd only get to see it once things were almost past the point of no return. "Not true," Bethany informed him. "Sometimes the right tattoo or piercing can tip the balance from fooling around to actual penetrative sex." Lawrence blushed, and Bethany said, "Which brings us to lesson eight." Oh God, thought Lawrence. "You're a virgin, right? Of course you are. Well, I guess the key thing for you to think about is lasting the distance. That terrible movie...what was it called? It had Ben Stiller in it? Anyway, one of the characters recommended jerking off before the date. You might want to think about that." Lawrence thought about telling her he didn't do that sort of thing, but she was giving him such a penetrating look that he just nodded weakly. "Now," she went on, (and he just wanted her to stop,) "you know what goes where, don't you? And all the...alternative whats and wheres? Of course you do, you're a big boy, and internet savvy. I'm sure you've seen plenty of porn." Again, Lawrence wanted to deny this, but again, he nodded. "Only, you've got to remember that women in porn movies are actresses, sort of. They pretend to enjoy certain things that most women don't really like." Then she proceeded to tell him, in graphic detail, exactly what real women didn't like. Lawrence listened, awestruck. This information was like gold. And hearing Bethany talk about it, well, he thought his penis was going to just explode out of his pants. Finally she finished talking and then pointed to his straining erection. "You see, Lawrence? This is why I insisted your new pants were really baggy around the front."

#

When the plain character in a movie or on TV gets a makeover, she usually walks into the library, unpins her hair and takes off her glasses. All the other characters gasp, "Why, Miss Simmons, you're... you're beautiful!" It wasn't quite that way with Lawrence, but Bethany was still pleased with the changes she had made. He was now okay-looking, by her standards, which were high. And, it had been almost fun having a doll to dress up. Hopefully too, it would pay off. It was now Lawrence's turn to help Bethany. They turned on her parents' computer, and modem. Bethany had a list of information she wanted to find out. They were going to see if they could find out about more vampires in the area – Sam couldn't be the only one. They were going to track down how Sam arrived in the city, and when, and where he had come from. They were going to look up news stories for the past month to see if anyone in the town had died suspiciously, or been attacked, and especially bitten. Maybe Sam had a favorite place he liked to hunt. They were going to do all this and more, except that when they finally tried to connect, the ISP had crashed. Bethany sighed. Well, it could wait until tomorrow. She decided to go back to plan A – checking out the clubs for sightings of Sam, and maybe information about other vamps. A Tuesday night wasn't great, but it would have to do. She made Lawrence have another shower and change into the new clothes they'd got him, then she went into her room to change, while Lawrence struggled with the hair-fudge.

#

Eager to follow Bethany's advice and make her proud, Lawrence tried to jerk off in her parents' shower, but for once, he couldn't manage it. Typical! He got dressed, and applied the eyeliner and the hair-fudge, hardly recognizing himself in the mirror. Shortly, Bethany returned, wearing a black dress which had been slashed by a razor to show flashes of white skin. A choker was at her neck. She looked gorgeous. "Well?" she said. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

He swallowed. "About what?"

"About how I look."

He shrugged, feigning indifference. "You look fine," he said. "Choker's a bit much though."

Bethany looked slightly put out, and then grinned. "Oh, I see. Well done. You're learning." Lawrence was as pleased as if she had just patted him on the head. They left the study, heading for the garage, and were both shocked to see Gerald emerging from the kitchen, his skin pale, posture hunched, and eyes sunken. They had actually forgotten about him. Gerald sneered at Bethany, then passed his eyes briefly over Lawrence, without any hint of recognition, before he turned away, heading back towards his room, clutching a toasted sandwich on a plate. Bethany called after him, "The police rang before. They're coming round to see you tomorrow. Got some questions. They said not to go anywhere." Gerald's steps faltered, then he carried on to his room.

Lawrence fidgeted in the SUV as Bethany drove them into town. Finally she snapped, "Lesson nine, sit still!" She found a parking space. It was late – 11p.m. Lawrence had had to phone his mom before they left and tell her that he was staying overnight at Gerald's. He wondered what kind of people went to clubs at 11p.m. on a Tuesday night. He was going to find out soon enough. Bethany led him down a deserted alley, through an unmarked door, down a flight of stairs and into a dimly lit room. There were at least a dozen other people there, all dressed a lot like Lawrence was now. Bethany chose a fairly central table and then asked Lawrence what he wanted to drink. "Um, Coke?" he said. He was underage, after all.

"No, a proper drink. Never mind, I'll get you a whiskey. Meanwhile – lesson ten, stop looking so prissy. Sit back in your chair, legs apart, like you own the place. Don't look around." She was back shortly, with a red drink for herself, and a brown drink for Lawrence. He took a swig, as he would Coke. It burned, and he struggled not to cough. Bethany drank her drink quickly. "Alright," she said. "I'm going in a minute to try some other places, see if they recognize Sam. This place used to be good, but it's full of emos and try-hards now. Alright for beginners, though," she added. "Final lesson. Sit here and wait to be approached. Your name is not Lawrence, by the way. Think of something else. Now, I'm about to do something," she warned. "Don't be alarmed and don't do anything stupid. It is just for show. But if anyone asks, yes, I'm your girlfriend."

Then she stood up, walked around the table, leaned over Lawrence, picked up his hand, cupped one of her breasts with it, kissed him (on the lips!), whispered "that ought to do it," smiled at him, and sashayed away. Holy shit!

Lawrence sat, absolutely dumbfounded, staring at the place where Bethany had been, and taking occasional small sips of his whiskey. He was even more startled when a girl suddenly sat down opposite him. She had black hair cut in a bob, with the blunt bangs dyed blue. Her bottom lip was pierced, and the weight of the rings in it made it droop downwards, so that she looked like a fish waiting for a feed. She was a bit overweight, but not as much as Lawrence was, he told himself. Besides, there were two remarkable things about her. The first was that her black and white striped top had two cross-shaped slashes in the chest where nipples poked through. Actual nipples. The second remarkable thing was that she was sitting at Lawrence's table, and introducing herself to him. "Hi, I'm Crystal."

"Hi," Lawrence said. Oh shit, he'd have to introduce himself too. "I'm... he looked around the table for inspiration. "...Glass," he said, then cringed inwardly. How lame was that? Crystal...and Glass.

But the girl just nodded. "Pretty sharp name," she said, trying to be witty. "So, was that your girlfriend?"

Say no, Lawrence's brain screamed at him –you don't want to scare this girl off! But Bethany had been one hundred percent right so far... "Yeah," he said.

"Oh." Crystal considered for a minute. "So," she said, finally. "Wanna go back to my place?"

#

Tuesday was a crappy, crappy night for the club scene, with half of the clubs in town closed, but at least those that were open were quiet enough that Bethany could ask her questions of the usually busy bartenders. No one had seen Sam. It didn't help of course that she only had a sketch to show, even though it was a good sketch. She'd asked a few of the patrons too. Most had been couples making out, who'd just told her to fuck off. Bethany sighed. Then she went home. Another wasted night. She wondered how Lawrence was getting on. Probably fucking up.

#

Lawrence woke up on Wednesday morning with a stiff neck. He was lying with his head at an awkward angle, on a sofa lumpier than his mother's custard. Where was he? The room smelled of stale pizza, and was decorated in a mix of tastes – posters of Marilyn Manson dotted around, a cardboard cut-out of the Futurama crew in one corner. There was a stack of pizza boxes on the coffee table in front of him. Cautiously, he opened the lid of the top one, and scraped off a piece of congealed cheese along with a little bit of cardboard, and ate it. He was hungry. He also needed to pee. He sat up, groaned, and immediately lay back down. What was wrong with his head?

A door opened and a creature in a short scruffy toweling robe shuffled into the living room. Two chubby legs stuck out from under the robe, and ended in a pair of extremely ug ug-boots. Crystal stopped dead, staring at Lawrence, blinking. Her hair was disheveled and her half-closed eyes puffy. He was reminded once again of a fish. In fact, as she curled her lip at him, the piercings made it look as if she was struggling with a fish-hook. "You're still here, dickhead?" she said. "Well, fuck off."

Lawrence sat up, feeling like his head might burst, and said, "Can I use your bathroom?"

"No, you fucking can't use the fucking bathroom. Fuck off." Then she picked up the top pizza box and threw it at him. A corner hit him in the forehead. And, as if he hadn't got the message, she said again, "Fuck off, dickhead!"

Lawrence fucked off. Crystal slammed the door behind him. He was now standing in the hallway of an old house which had been converted into apartments, and he really needed to pee. There was a pot plant at the end of the hallway, and so Lawrence gave it some essential nutrients. With the pressure on his bladder relieved, he was better able to think. What a weird night it had been.

Lawrence and Crystal had taken a cab back to her apartment. During the ride, Crystal had pretty much climbed on top of Lawrence and started mashing her face against his, slobbering and thrusting her tongue into his mouth. As this was Lawrence's first proper kiss, he supposed he should have enjoyed it, and he half-heartedly probed back with his own tongue, but really, it was not all that he had imagined. For a start, Crystal's mouth tasted like stale cheese and onion chips. And then there were the piercings, which rubbed against his bottom gum quite painfully. Crystal, unfortunately, misinterpreted his reticence as cool, and it made her even more fevered. Lawrence was relieved when the cab pulled over, and they clambered out. He paid the fare.

Crystal then grabbed his hand and dragged him into a big house. Inside, she drunkenly fumbled at the door of her apartment, trying to insert a key. The door was opened from the inside, and Crystal spilled into the apartment, dragging Lawrence along. A girl standing just inside the door said "hi" to Lawrence, and then went back to where she had been sitting on the sofa, and picked up a remote control. Lawrence saw that the TV was frozen at a scene from Tolkein's 'The Two Towers'. The girl on the sofa said to Crystal, "Sophie was supposed to come over, but she's had to work, so there's an extra pizza if you want it. Might be a bit cold."

Crystal said, "Yah," and picked up the pizza box, as the girl hit 'play' and the movie resumed. "Come on, then," she said to Lawrence, grabbing his wrist again with her spare hand, and beginning to lead him towards a bedroom. Through the open door, Lawrence saw black painted walls, clothes strewn all over the carpet, chocolate wrappers, beer cans... and a double bed on which sat a purple comforter scrunched up into a mound. The bed suddenly filled his field of vision, like a track-pull in a cheesy old horror movie. Oh my God, he was actually going to do it. He was going to lose his virginity and become a man.

"Let's eat first," he squeaked, resisting Crystal's efforts. "Out here." Finding herself attached to a suddenly immoveable object, Crystal let go and shrugged, dropping the pizza box back on the coffee table.

"Whatever. I'll get drinks." She left the room, and Lawrence heard the fridge door open. The girl on the sofa paused the movie again and said to Lawrence, "Hi, I'm Amanda. Sorry about the movie. Only, I watched the Fellowship yesterday, and I'm going to watch the Return of the King tomorrow. I've got a bit of a thing for Samwise Gamgee." Lawrence goggled at her. Girls always, always fancied Legolas, or Aragon, or Boromir, and he had even heard of one or two fancying Merry, Pippin or Frodo. But never Samwise – the fattest of the hobbits.

"I don't mind," he said. "I've only seen it eleven times. About time I saw it again." He smiled at her, and she smiled back. She wasn't pretty – not by any stretch of the imagination. She was very pale, but not the artfully crafted pale of the wannabe goth. She had such fair skin that she looked almost blue, and her wispy hair was white blond. She was very thin, and her features were fine – almost elfin. Oh, but when she smiled – Lawrence thought he would melt. "I'm Lawrence," he said, sinking into an armchair.

Crystal was walking back through from the kitchen. She tossed a can of Coke to Amanda and said, as she passed Lawrence a beer, "I thought your name was Glass."

Lawrence looked at the beer, wishing it was a Coke. "Mmm," he said, non-committally. The three of them ate cold pizza in silence. Lawrence took tiny bites, and chewed them thoroughly, as Bethany had instructed. Crystal ate noisily. A string of mozzarella trailed from one of her piercings. "Um, I don't mind if you want to start the movie again," Lawrence said to Amanda.

"It's okay," she said. More silence.

Lawrence waited until he had swallowed, before trying to make conversation with Crystal, saying, "I like the posters you've put up." He pointed to Bladerunner and Harry Potter and Sean of the Dead. "And that Futurama cut-out is awesome!" Crystal snorted and beer actually came out of her nostrils.

"Thanks," Amanda said. "They're mine. I work in a video store, so I get them for free."

"Cool!" said Lawrence. "Do you get rental discounts too?"

"Free rental, and half-price pre-watched sale-DVDs too. Of course," she went on, and leaned forward conspiratorially to whisper, "I download most of my movies before they're even out on DVD."

Both Crystal and Lawrence groaned, but for very different reasons. Then Crystal stood up, and looked pointedly at Lawrence. "I'm going to bed, Glass...or whatever the fuck your name is. Are you coming?" Lawrence looked at her, embarrassed, but Crystal actually looked like she didn't give a shit either way. Truth be told, she looked like she was bloated with gas.

"Uh..." said Lawrence.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Crystal said, staggering off.

"Hmm," said Amanda. "yIntagh! (Dumb as rocks!)"

Lawrence was amazed. "tlhIngan Hol Dajatlh! (You speak Klingon!)" he exclaimed.

And so, Lawrence and Amanda had stayed up for another hour, or maybe two, talking. Amanda was eighteen. She worked at a video store, but had dreams of becoming a movie reviewer, and even had a moderately successful movie blog, which was just beginning to sell advertising space. She roomed with Crystal but didn't like her much. They had both answered an ad and each been chosen by their third roommate, who now spent all his time at his boyfriend's house, leaving the apartment to them. Lawrence and Amanda talked about movies, and games, and hobbies. Amanda was into live-action role-playing – she played an elf, of course, and was even thinking of saving up for cosmetic surgery to get pointy ear-tips. Lawrence asked her why, if she liked elves so much, didn't she fancy Legolas? Amanda had laughed, and said that Samwise was a protector. He was big and strong and cuddly. And then Amanda had looked at Lawrence, and the look was so pointed that he had blushed and quickly changed the subject. "Um, er, what music do you like?"

And the whole time Sir Ian McKellen remained forgotten, frozen on screen, staff raised and robe billowing.

Lawrence supposed he must have fallen asleep at some stage, and the next thing he knew, it was morning and Crystal was telling him to fuck off.

#

Bethany woke up the next morning more determined that ever to get on and find Sam. Lawrence hadn't turned up, and she realized she didn't even know how to contact him. There was no way she was going to ask her brother. He seemed to have turned feral. The few times she had seen him, coming or going from the kitchen or bathroom, he had avoided her gaze, and when she tried to talk to him he just growled. His eyes looked hollow, his back was bowed and he smelt like he hadn't showered in days. Bethany supposed he was suffering from guilt. Well, good. Another couple of days would serve him right.

Finally, she decided to have a go on the internet herself. She couldn't hope to crack any official sources of information, but she tried the news sites, and after half an hour was surprised to find an article on a site called 'Oddly Enough'.

The body of local man Sam Shore, twenty-six, was reported missing on Monday from the funeral home where he had been awaiting burial. Mr. Shore had been struck and killed by a bus, early on Sunday morning. Police have confirmed that the body of Mr. Shore has since been found and returned to the funeral home, but eyewitness reports state that Mr. Shore was seen alive and well, and with no trace of his bus injuries on Tuesday evening, when they say he suffered a second fatality, in the form of a pool cue penetrating his eye. The police and funeral home have refused to comment.

So Sam had turned up, and was dead again! What was it with this guy? Had he not got the hang of being undead yet? Did he not realize that he needed to find a nice private crypt, or even a basement, in which to sleep the sleep of the undead? Well, Bethany thought, I'll soon set him right. I'll show him how to do it properly!

At least now she knew Sam was at a funeral home. But which one? She wondered whether Lawrence could do something online to find out, but she didn't want to wait for him. Well, maybe she should just call around. She dragged out the yellow pages and found twenty-seven funeral homes. This was going to be a long process.

Most of the time the phone was answered in hushed tones by a respectful receptionist. Bethany was informed time after time that no one by the name of Sam Shore, nor anyone answering to his description, had been brought in. Finally, one receptionist had drawn in her breath at Bethany's query, and asked her if she was a relative of the deceased. Yes! Bethany said she was. She was asked to please hold, and then her call was transferred. After more than a minute, a man picked up. He sounded tense and harried. Bethany again asked about Sam, and was told that Sam was indeed present at the funeral home, but that arrangements for the funeral were still being finalized, and that the man could call her back when he knew more. What was her name and address?

Now Bethany faltered. She didn't want to give her details. Suddenly the man grew suspicious. "Are you a reporter?" he asked her. Bethany hung up. Well, at least now she knew where Sam was. But what could she do about it? She sat in her parents' study, drumming her long nails on the desk. Suddenly there was a knock on the window. Bethany looked up, and saw Lawrence waving at her. She motioned to the front door, and walked through to let him in. There was no sign of Gerald.

Lawrence looked a sight. His eyeliner was smudged, and his hair stuck up - much more than had been artfully arranged the night before. His new clothes were rumpled – as if he had slept in them on a lumpy sofa. They raised eyebrows at each other without speaking and Bethany nodded Lawrence through to the study. "So?" she said, once the door was closed. Lawrence grinned a big goofy smile. "What – you actually got laid?" she said.

"Nope," Lawrence said. "But I could've. Only I didn't want to."

Bethany rolled her eyes. "Great. All that hard work for nothing. Never mind – I've got a job for you."

Bethany explained her plan to Lawrence. She was going to make an appointment at the funeral home, and Lawrence was going to come along. Then Lawrence would distract the funeral director and Bethany would snoop around, looking for Sam.

Lawrence looked doubtful. "Distract him? How?"

"I don't know... Cry? Come on, Lawrence, you owe me." She threw him her cellphone. "First I need you to phone and make an appointment."

"Why can't you do it?"

Bethany was taken aback. She'd expected Lawrence to acquiesce without question. "I just phoned and made the guy nervous. You do it. Please? Here's the number." She passed him a slip of paper. "Tell him we want to arrange our father's funeral. We're a brother and sister. Please?"

Lawrence smiled again, and Bethany wondered what he found so amusing. He dialed, and as he waited for an answer, absent-mindedly pushed the envelope with the funeral home's details into the pocket of his jeans. "Oh, hello," he said. "My name is... Lawrence... Glass, and my sister and I want to make arrangements for our mother's funeral. Can we make an appointment? Oh... um... no, well... I mean, she's not dead yet. That is, she's dying at the moment... No... yes... um... no, she's in a coma... That's right. Yes, it's very sad... no, no brain function. Uh-huh. Well, she had a good innings..."

Bethany glared at him and spun her finger in a wrap-this-up movement. "Uh-huh... I see... yes, that would be fine... I understand... okay, we'll see you tomorrow. Yes, thank you. Bub-bye."

"Tomorrow!"

Lawrence shrugged. "It was the first available appointment."

"What was all that shit about a coma?"

"Oh – she wanted to know when and where they could collect the body. So...I improvised."

Bethany grudgingly agreed that it had been fast thinking. Lawrence handed her back the phone, and then fished the piece of paper out of his pocket and gave her that too. Bethany frowned and unfolded the paper. The phone number had been written on the back of an envelope, but a yellow sticky note was now stuck to it. She read the contents, grinned, and gave a low whistle. "Oho Lawrence! Boy, do you owe me!"

#

Lawrence had left Crystal and Amanda's apartment, feeling confused. His eyes were gritty with sleep, his mouth tasted like he'd sucked a sock, and he didn't even know where he was. He staggered along the road for a while, trying to find a familiar landmark. Eventually, he waved down at taxi, and then sat in the back, unsure where to go, while the driver looked at him expectantly in the rear-view mirror. He decided it would be a mistake to go straight home. His mother would faint at the sight of him. Lawrence quite liked his new look – but figured he should make the changes appear more gradual, otherwise his mother would worry he had joined a cult, or something. A thought suddenly struck him. Maybe he should just move out! Amanda had left home, and she was only a few months older than him. He was pondering this possibility when the taxi driver pointedly cleared his throat. Lawrence mumbled an apology and gave him Bethany and Gerald's address.

When he got there, he wasn't sure what to do. Bethany had made him promise not to tell Gerald that Sam was still alive. He felt bad about this... after all, Gerald was his oldest friend, after Keith. But, it was Bethany who had made him promise and Bethany was his whole world, his reason for living, his... Lawrence stopped dead in the middle of the path. No, she wasn't! He took a quick survey of his feelings. Yes, Bethany was still hot. Yes, he still wanted to see her naked. But no, he didn't want to be her boyfriend.

Lawrence found this difficult to accept. He had wanted to possess Bethany since he was ten – had wanted her for half of his living memory. The sudden absence of his desire was as startling as if he had discovered that his nose was missing from his face. He felt free. Suddenly he wanted to test himself. He crept alongside the house to the office window. Good, Bethany was in there, drumming her fingers on the desk and frowning. He watched her for awhile. She was beautiful...and that was all. Lawrence knocked and waved. Then Bethany had brought him in, explained her plan, and Lawrence had agreed to go along with it, not because it was Bethany asking him to do it, but just because he felt like helping out. Huh.

And now she said, "Oho, Lawrence. Boy, do you owe me!" She was offering a post-it-note. Lawrence looked at her quizzically and took the note.

Hi! Was great to meet you last night. So glad u didn't hook up with Crystal, yuk! Thought it was cool how much we had in common. Was going to talk to u this morning, but u looked so cute sleeping, and I had to go to work. Call me! Manda xox.

And a phone number.

Lawrence was reeling from this wondrous event when his cellphone started ringing. And stopped. And started again. And stopped. Lawrence figured it was his mom trying to get hold of him and failing to cope with the technology. Suddenly, the door to the office flew open. Gerald stood in the doorway wide-eyed, staring at the two of them, his cellphone in his other hand. "You!" he said to Bethany, sounding like a character in a soap opera. "And you!" He looked Lawrence up and down, taking in his new image, then turned and strode from the room. Lawrence looked apologetically at Bethany, and then followed Gerald.

#

Bethany watched Lawrence slip away and sighed. The problem with having a protégé, she realized, was that they soon outgrew you. Lawrence had obviously made an impression on this Manda girl, and now Bethany's own hold on Lawrence had slipped. Be careful what you wish for. Still, she'd make sure he remembered his promise, and help her at the funeral home tomorrow. He owed her.

In the meantime, what was she going to do? Doofus solved the problem temporarily, by coming into the office at that moment, his leash in his mouth, whining. It was Gerald's responsibility to walk the old dog, but Bethany supposed he had been neglecting his duties of late. She hooked up the leash and took the excited little dog for a walk around the block while she mulled over the possibilities. She could go to the funeral home today, but how would she get the chance to snoop by herself? No, it would have to be tomorrow. But what if Sam had woken up and left by then?

#

Lawrence felt weird. On the one hand, he was elated about Amanda's note. She must have stuck it in his pocket while he slept. She liked him! She wanted him to call her! He fought down an overwhelming urge to just leave the house, to forget about his promise to Bethany, his concern about Gerald, his knowledge of Sam. He would call Amanda, and ask her out.

But on the other hand, he had made a promise to Bethany, and of course without her help, he wouldn't have even met Amanda. Then there was Gerald...

Gerald looked bad. Lawrence followed him through the house and into his bedroom. "I thought we needed a meeting so I called the others," Gerald said, voice shaking. "Then I called you, and your phone rang in my fucking house! What's going on? I thought we were friends, and then you went and told Bethany about the vamp, and now I find you hanging out with her and dressed up like some goth freak. You look ridiculous, you fat-fuck!"

Ordinarily, this last comment would have wounded Lawrence. He would have sniveled around Gerald, pleading forgiveness. But not today. Lawrence patted the pocket where he had concealed Amanda's note. "Listen, Gerald. We are friends, but you're not the boss of me. I can hang around with whoever I want, and dress however I like. Now what's the problem? Why do we need a meeting?"

Gerald sat down on his bed, and stared at Lawrence, astonished. "It's this Sam guy," he said, finally. "I... I can't stand it. I keep think the police are going to show up any second. That Hispanic lady saw us, and she saw Dad's van... We murdered him, Lawrence. Murdered him!" And then Gerald clapped his hands over his face and began to cry. Lawrence just watched him, until he stopped, and looked up with red-rimmed eyes. "I don't think he was a vampire after all. We should turn ourselves in."

Lawrence knew what Gerald was going through. Only a day ago he had felt equally wretched, thinking himself a murderer. He let Gerald off the hook. "No, we were right. Bethany told me. The guy is still alive – well, actually, probably not at the moment, but in any case we didn't kill him. He died Tuesday night of a pool cue through the eye. Bethany says he dies all the time – and comes back to life."

Gerald's jaw dropped. Incredulous, he turned to the computer and began searching online. After about ten minutes, he found the same brief news article, and Lawrence's words were confirmed. Ursula arrived a couple of minutes later, and Keith a few minutes after that. Both of them looked stressed out from worry, but not as bad as Gerald. At least they had showered. Gerald made Lawrence repeat the story, and then he showed them the news item. Keith looked relieved, but Ursula's face clouded over. "The bastard!" she said. "What funeral home is he at?" Lawrence looked at her flashing eyes and decided not to say anything.

"Why?" Keith asked.

"Because we have to do it properly, this time! I reckon we should..." she was cut off by Gerald laying a hand on her leg. He nodded towards Lawrence and Ursula said, "Oh."

She hadn't looked properly at Lawrence the whole time she had been here – not even when he was explaining about Sam. Now she looked him up and down, her eyes narrowed. "I think you'd better go," she said.

"What?"

"You heard me."

Lawrence looked at the others for confirmation. Keith wouldn't meet his eyes, but Gerald nodded. "Fuck you then," Lawrence said. "I don't need you." And he left the room. He went to find Bethany, but she wasn't there, so he scribbled her a brief note, leaving it in the study. Then he left the house experiencing again a strange freedom. He felt angry, and hopeful, and happy, and strangely powerful. He felt ready even to confront his mom. Lawrence went home.

#

The next morning was gray and drizzly. A great day for visiting a funeral home, Bethany thought. She dressed conservatively in one of her mother's suits, figuring she could ditch the blouse and suit jacket in favor of the camisole underneath if she happened upon a conscious Sam. She had phoned Lawrence half an hour ago, and they had made a plan for her to collect him. At ten to eleven they were parking the SUV in the parking lot of a huge Victorian mansion. They had agreed on a story, and had rehearsed it on the way over, Bethany feeling mildly shocked at the change in Lawrence. He was confident, and articulate, and hadn't even tried to look at her breasts.

They checked in with a receptionist, and were given her condolences at this 'difficult time of impending loss.' She escorted them through to a tasteful waiting room, offered them tea, which they declined, and then returned to the reception area. There were no magazines in the waiting room, which Bethany found odd. Surely people waiting to discuss their dead loved ones would want something to take their minds off their grief. Then again, reading about celebrities behaving badly probably wasn't appropriate either.

She looked around the room. The walls were blue-gray up to a wooden rail, and cream above that. Innocuous prints of ships, gardens and hills hung from the wooden rail. There were pot plants and low tables. Very faint classical music piped through hidden speakers, but otherwise the scene was hushed. After a minute, two men entered the room. The larger man looked rumpled and forlorn, and was snuffling into a handkerchief. The smaller man was making soothing noises – almost cooing. He was dressed primly, in a three-piece pin-striped suit, sky blue tie matching sky-blue handkerchief. That handkerchief was never snuffled into, Bethany surmised. The small man steered the larger to a chair, and said, "Dora will bring you a cup of tea. Stay as long as you need to." Then he turned to Bethany and Lawrence, and offered Lawrence his hand to shake. "Mr. Glass. Miss Glass. I am Angus McReedy. Please, walk this way." He led them through a door and down a passageway. Suddenly, a young blonde woman rounded a corner at the end of the hall, running. She caught sight of the trio, and slowed to a walk. McReedy nodded at her, and said tightly, "Miss Kirkham." Bethany could see it was an admonishment. The woman looked distracted and nodded back, then squeezed past them into the waiting room.

They followed McReedy into his office, and sat on leather chairs at a sturdy oak table. He offered them tea, again, which they declined. Why was tea the comfort drink of choice? Bethany wondered. She and Lawrence embarked on their story, McReedy nodding sympathetically, his toupee slipping slightly back and forth.

When they began to describe their 'mother's' last wishes, Bethany got choked up, and asked to be directed to the ladies room. McReedy led her out into the hall, giving her directions, and then Lawrence brought McReedy scurrying back to the table by announcing that their mother wanted the most expensive coffin available.

Bethany crept along the corridor, cautiously opening doors and looking into rooms. There was no sign of Sam. At the end of the hall was a door marked "Private. Staff Only." She opened this door and found herself in an extension of the hall. There was a flight of stairs leading down to a basement, and an elevator with large doors. Hmmm – promising. She crept partway down the stairs, but froze stock still at a turn when she heard voices. She took her mirror out of her purse and angled it so that she could see around the turn in the stairwell. She saw the blonde woman who had been running along the hall, talking urgently to the large man who had been crying in the waiting room. His face was blotchy red.

Damn! Bethany felt certain that this is where Sam could be found, but she hadn't a hope of getting a look down there.

#

There were voices, but they meant nothing to Sam. They sounded like gibberish. Or music. Strange, alien music.

"He's not dead."

"You're nuts."

"I know it sounds crazy, but it's true."

"Listen, lady. He's dead." The voice cracked. "You know how I know? He's dead because I killed him. I stabbed a fucking pool cue through his eye!" There was a huge snotty sob.

"Yes, alright, I know he's dead right now, but he'll be okay. You've got to believe me."

"What kind of a fucking funeral home is this? First they call me to say they've lost the body, then it turns out he's not dead. And now that he is dead, with a massive hole in his head, you're saying he'll be fine?" Another huge shuddery sob. "If I hadn't already paid for a coffin, I'd go someplace else!"

Suddenly, the gibberish started to make some sort of sense. Words! That's what they were!

"Look, all I'm saying is just wait, okay? Don't bury him for a few days. Just...in case."

"Just get out of here." A further big gulping sob.

The words were coming from people. His dad. And...Jenny? Sam opened his mouth to try to speak, but managed only "mmmthumpthythump." He'd forgotten how to speak. It was dark, in here, and very cold. He tried to sit up, but almost immediately clonked his already painful head. His eye was throbbing.

"What are you playing at?" he heard his dad say, voice sharp.

Jenny replied, her voice too distant to make out.

Sam raised his hands, but only the left side of his body would move. His right was numb. His left hand felt a cold hard steel surface. Oh great, the right hemisphere of his brain thought, dreamily. I'm trapped. He coughed, and swallowed and a trickle of saliva formed, allowing him to call out again. "Phhhhthymity?"

His father swore. He heard Jenny saying, "See, it's not a trick. I told you. He's not dead." Then there was fumbling at his feet, and suddenly Sam and the surface he was lying on were sliding. He realized he was in a large metal drawer. Light poured over him, blinding Sam's good right eye. Jenny gasped. "God, Sam, you look awful!"

Ashamed, Sam covered his ravaged left eye with his left hand and tried to sit up. Unfortunately, with only half of his body working, he lurched jerkily and crashed down onto the floor. "Aaargh," he said. "Braaaain". His right eye began to adapt to the light. Jenny was standing next to the metal drawer, looking down at him, a huge grin on her face. His dad was on the floor, legs clasped under his chin, making soft mewling sounds. Things were happening in Sam's brain as the left hemisphere repaired itself. Neurons were firing. Connections were reforming. Sam felt life returning to the right side of his body. It was no worse than pins and needles. He flexed his right hand. Shakily, he climbed to his knees, and began to shuffle towards his father, arms outstretched, but the older man rolled his eyes and moaned, scooting backwards away from Sam. Sam stopped. He was now able to feel the sinews around his left eye beginning to knit together. He felt a weird sensation as the newly repaired eyeball began to inflate with jelly. A lens grew, and the world slowly came into focus. He recognized the basement of the funeral home where he had first met Jenny. He blinked. Normal. Sam felt perfectly normal.

"I'm okay, Dad," he said, as reassuringly as possible. His dad yelped, and fainted.

Sam sighed. "Hi," Jenny said, smiling prettily. Her dimples gave Sam pins and needles all over again. She turned to the storage cupboard, removed a set of hospital scrubs and threw them to him. "You know the drill." Sam realized that once again, he was naked in front of this girl. At least he didn't have an erection this time. He looked down at himself, and couldn't even see his penis. Well, that was worse, wasn't it? But then, he had been shut up for hours in a refrigerated drawer. He dressed hurriedly and then turned his attention to his father.

"There's a sofa in the hall," Jenny said. "He might be more comfy there." Sam nodded. He hoisted his dad up under the armpits and Jenny took his legs. Soon he was on the sofa.

"There's still some blood around your eye," Jenny said. "You might want to wash up. You know where the bathroom is."

Sam thanked her and scooted away. A mirror in the bathroom revealed more than a little blood. He splashed himself clean, watching the rust colored water swirl down the drain. Using paper towels, he patted himself dry, then returned to the sofa. His dad was sitting up, awake. He stared in amazement at Sam. Sam sat down next to him. "Dad," said Sam. "I'm sorry I scared you. I've got a lot to tell you." The older man looked like he had aged a decade. "Shall we go get a beer?" Sam asked him gently. His dad nodded, still dumbfounded.

"Whoa – wait a minute," Jenny said. "Mr. McReedy is due back any time now. He's already in a shitty mood. When you got brought back here the second time, the cops had a go at him for not having realized that you were actually still alive after the bus accident. He pointed out to them that the police themselves at the scene of the accident had pronounced you dead, and that the doctors at the hospital had confirmed it." She began to tick things off on her fingers. "He also pointed out that you had appeared to go through rigor mortis, that you had lost an unfeasible amount of blood, that bones had been poking through your skin and that you had been placed in a chiller overnight. He then accused the cops of having found your still-dead corpse and brought it back with some bogus story about a pool-cue having killed you. Then the cops said they had witnesses at the bar, including your dad, who swore you were alive earlier. Then McReedy got mad at your father, and said in that case, they must be pulling some sort of scam involving identical twins. Your dad shouted at him and said he didn't have twins and could prove it, and was going to sue McReedy for negligence and emotional suffering, and also get his business scrutinized by investigative journalists. At this point, McReedy threw up his hands, said he was sure it was all a misunderstanding, and agreed to take back your corpse and do the funeral for free." Jenny paused to catch her breath. "McReedy's still deeply suspicious of the whole thing. He suspects I might have been here when you when missing the first time, and he knows I'm here today. If you go missing now, I'll get fired. He might even get the cops involved."

Sam looked up at her, torn. Of course he didn't want to get her into trouble, but what was the alternative? Let McReedy bury him? He thought for a moment. Maybe he could talk to Mr. McReedy, and explain that there actually had been a mistake – that Sam was mistakenly pronounced dead, but had really been in a coma. Except that, as Jenny had already pointed out, Mr. McReedy was a professional undertaker, was certain he hadn't made a mistake, and had seen Sam dead twice, both times with undeniably fatal injuries. Well then, he could tell McReedy the truth. Only Sam didn't really know what the truth was. Besides, what if McReedy called the cops anyway? Or the men in the white coats – either from the loony bin, or from some government lab? He shuddered at the thought. Wouldn't the army love to learn how to make soldiers who could return from the dead to keep on fighting? They'd take him apart atom-by-atom to find out what made him tick.

Jenny was biting her lip. "I've got an idea," she said. "But you're not going to like it."

"Oh, go on," Sam said.

Half an hour later, Sam was comfortably ensconced in a top of the line SleepWell3000 coffin. It was made of polished wood and had brass handles and a split lid. Sam had insisted that a pine box would be fine, but Mr. McReedy, mopping his brow, had that morning offered Sam's dad the SleepWell3000 as a sweetener to the 'please-don't-sue-me' deal. So there he was. Not that he minded, really. The coffin was lined with padded silk. It was comfier than his own bed. As his father had not yet brought in a suit for Sam to be buried in, he was wearing hospital scrubs on his bottom half, Jenny's cardigan was draped backwards over his chest to give the illusion of a top, and he wore his father's jacket over that. His face itched with foundation, but Jenny had told him not to move his hands, which were clasped together on his chest. They were in one of the mourning rooms. His father sat on a chair, pretending to be lost in grief. It didn't seem hard for him – Sam was pretty sure he was lost in confusion, which didn't look that different. "Here he comes," Jenny hissed. She gave Sam a wink, then closed the lid of the coffin. He heard talking, but it was indistinct. Sam knew that Jenny was feeding McReedy the story they'd prepared – that while McReedy was away attending to another meeting, Sam's dad had suddenly demanded his son be placed in his coffin straight away, and had insisted he help Jenny to do it then and there.

He heard footsteps, then the upper half of the coffin lid began to rise. Sam breathed out and composed his face, letting his muscles go slack.

He heard a gasp. "Miss Kirkham," a man whispered in a funereal hush. "I am most impressed! This is remarkable work. He looks so lifelike! And his injury – it's as good as new."

"Thank you Mr. McReedy," Jenny whispered in return. "I filled the hole with latex and resculpted the face." Sam could feel the man lean in for a closer look. Garlicky breath washed over him. Was the guy going to touch him? Sam's warmth would give the game away. Suddenly his dad let out a keening wail, and McReedy stood up straight, bashing his head on the coffin lid. Something coarse and hairy, and about the size of a tarantula landed on Sam's clasped hands and he almost cried out, but stopped himself. "Oh, sir," Jenny was saying. "Are you alright? Come and sit down."

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," McReedy was saying, trying to maintain a professional air in front of his client. Then he yelped. "My hair!" At this, Sam's dad let out another theatrical wail. Sam thought he was rather overdoing it.

"Oh," he heard Jenny say. "I'll get it." Jenny reached into the coffin and removed McReedy's toupee from Sam's clasped hands, giving them a squeeze as she did so. Sam risked a peek. From this angle, with the light shining behind her, Jenny's blonde hair glowed like a halo. She was an angel.

"Close it up!" Sam's dad said, delivering his line with a nice touch of hysteria, and evidently startling Mr. McReedy.

"I'm sorry?"

"I want the coffin closed up now, and never opened again. And I want you to put tape along the seal, and I want to sign my name on the tape. That way, at the funeral, I'll know if he's been tampered with. I'm not having him disturbed again. I'm not having him go missing. I've read on the internet what goes on! Necrophiliacs stealing corpses to perform depraved acts upon! Body snatchers peddling organs on the black market, and melting down the leftover fat to make candles and soap! So-called artists freeze-drying bodies to make installations in art galleries! Funeral directors selling corpses as scrap meat to pet food companies, and then burying an empty coffin!"

Whoa, steady on Dad, Sam thought. Don't go overboard. But he heard McReedy making soothing, placating sounds, and realized his Dad had struck just the right note of insanity. Jenny came over, winked at Sam, and closed the lid on him. He heard her snapping down the latches. "Now!" he heard his dad scream. "Right now, and I want to watch it done!"

Soon Sam felt the trolley table that his coffin was balanced on being pushed along. He heard the murmur of voices. The coffin lurched as the trolley was forced over some small obstacle, and then he felt himself sinking. They were in the elevator heading back to the basement. Then they were rolling again. There was a long period of seeming inactivity, but Sam knew McReedy and Jenny were busy sealing the edges of the coffin with tape, under the watchful but crazy eye of his dad. One more short period of rolling, a hard metal clang, and then utter, utter silence. The silence of the grave.

# Chapter Sixteen

"Jeez, I thought I'd never get you out of there," Jenny said to Sam. Sam had never been so pleased to see anyone. According to the plan, as soon as Sam's coffin had been wheeled into the large freezer, his dad had insisted McReedy discuss funeral arrangements with him at once, upstairs in his office. His dad was going to continue to be a difficult client, dithering and indecisive. Once they had gone, Jenny had wheeled Sam's coffin back out of the freezer. She had stripped all the tape off the edges, and flung open the lid. Now Sam sat up, sucking in a lungful of fresh air – or at least fresher air than had been in the coffin. "Come on," Jenny said. "Still lots to do." Sam climbed out of the coffin. Together they worked as rapidly as they could. First, they tied knots in the ends of the legs and sleeves of another set of scrubs, which they then laid out in the coffin. Next, they filled a huge number of plastic bags with water, carefully sealing them and placing them inside the scrubs, until they were inflated to the rough shape of a human body. Then they closed up the coffin and resealed it with tape. At this point, Jenny left to go talk to McReedy. Sam's dad, who had excused himself to go to the bathroom came rushing down into the basement, hastily re-signed all along the tape, and dashed out again. Sam pushed the coffin back into the freezer and closed the door. Done.

Jenny came back in. "Phew!" she said. "Your dad's been giving McReedy grief! Poor guy hasn't even noticed he's put his toupee back on upside down. McReedy was a bit worried that you hadn't been embalmed yet, and the funeral's not 'til Sunday, but he's happy enough if we keep you in the freezer until right before the service. It's for the best anyway to keep the fake corpse frozen – if those water bags leak, it'll ruin everything. So. That's that, I guess. Thank you, Sam."

Sam blinked at her. "Thank me? Why are you thanking me?"

"Well – all this of course. Saving my job."

She was incredible. "I should be the one thanking you. I've dragged you into the mess of my existence after all, and you coped wonderfully." They stared at each other for about a minute. After all the rushing around, the stillness was strange.

"Listen," Jenny said. "We've sorted it out this time, but the next time you die, you might not be so lucky. You might get embalmed. Or... you might wake up buried alive." She swallowed hard. "You've GOT to go see that creepy guy at the bar and find out if it's something to do with him. You've got to end this."

Sam nodded. "I'll explain things to my dad, quick as I can, and then it's straight round to the Shakespeare Inn, scouts' honor."

She giggled. "You were never a scout. Oh, by the way, I've got OJ. I didn't know how long you would be dead, so I went and got him this morning. That's when I met your dad." Sam smiled. OJ. She would think of that. She was incredible.

#

"Peanut1953," said Lawrence.

"What?"

"Peanut1953. It's McReedy's password."

"Well fuck me," Bethany said, admiringly. They had returned to her house, and were sitting in her parents' office again. They had noticed Keith's bike outside, which meant the dweebs were around, but must have been in Gerald's bedroom, cooking up whatever scheme Lawrence had been excluded from. "How'd you manage that?" She asked him. "We were only out of the room for a few minutes."

"It was written on a post-it note stuck on his monitor," Lawrence said scornfully.

"So, what use is his password? Don't we have to use McReedy's computer?"

Lawrence shook his head. No – I also got his IP address. We can check it out from here."

Lawrence spent a few minutes mucking around with the computer while Bethany anxiously chewed her nails. "OK," Lawrence said. "We're in."

"Can you find anything about Sam?"

Lawrence tinkered for a bit longer. "Here's a folder labeled Funeral Plans," he said, double-clicking it open. "Let's see... folder called SHOR01?" He opened it up. "Ah, here's something." He rolled the office chair to one side, allowing Bethany to scoot up on the hard-backed dining chair she was using. The document was a plan for Sam's funeral. She read through it. Both the date of the funeral and the venue were yet to be confirmed. The program was listed though. There would be an introduction from McReedy, a reading by someone called Dave, and then a eulogy from Sam's dad...

Sam's dad? Sam had a dad? That seemed incongruous. Bethany wondered if Sam's dad knew what Sam was? Presumably not. Maybe Sam was only freshly turned into a vampire. Or...or maybe the guy wasn't really Sam's dad. Maybe he was his sire – the master vamp who had turned Sam? She shook her head. Don't be so silly – if he was, he wouldn't be going through with a fake funeral. She scrolled down further, and winced when she read the music choices. There was "Time in a Bottle," by Jim Croce, "Cat's in the Cradle," by Harry Chapin, and "The Tears of a Clown," by Smokey Robinson. These HAD to be the dad's choice. She couldn't bear the thought of Sam actually liking this crap. It made her think again about writing a will, if only so that, when the time came, her funeral song list got played according to her wishes: "1959" by Sisters of Mercy, "Burn" by The Cure, and "Exquisite Corpse," by Bauhaus. That had always been her plan – to leave an exquisite corpse. Now, of course, with Sam in the picture, the plan was to become immortal. She wouldn't need a list of funeral music, or indeed a will.

The document wasn't really that helpful, she had to conclude – with no time or venue listed. She pointed this out to Lawrence, and he smiled confidently, and shooed her away from the computer. Jeez, what had got into him? A few keystrokes and mouse-clicks later and she was looking at a schedule of all McReedy's appointments – and there it was. Sam Shore: Parkdale Cemetery, Saturday morning. Fucking-A.

#

Lawrence was still in a state of disbelief about his own changed perspectives. Bethany was impressed by the ease with which he had hacked the funeral home – it had actually been a piece of piss – and was now gushing about how clever he was. Lawrence was pleased, but not overwhelmed. In fact his main thought was that he wished it was Amanda saying this and not Bethany. How weird was that! And then Bethany had offered to get dinner delivered – anything he wanted, and Lawrence found himself saying no thanks, he had other plans. And he did! He was going to call Amanda and make... a date!

#

The last time Sam had been in the Shakespeare Inn, he'd been too drunk to notice the tacky décor. It was a mish-mash of English clichés, from the Tudor-style white walls and dark beams to the swinging sixties Carnaby Street signs to the row of ugly toby jugs on the mantelpiece above the fake log fire.

Sam was not holding out much hope, but unbelievably, Jeff was seated in the bar, clutching another bottle of beer. When he saw Sam, his face cracked open again in that strange rictus grin. It was very unsettling. "Ah, Sam, the Immortal!" he said heartily. Sam took his elbow, pulled him off the barstool and led him to a back booth.

"Very funny," he said. "Only I'm not really immortal, am I? It's more like I'm serially mortal."

Jeff shrugged. "That's not my department. But you're as good as, aren't you? I mean, you can't stay dead – so that means technically you'll live forever. Like Will Shakespeare, right?" He winked.

Sam's eyes narrowed. "So it was you. What did you do, shoot me full of nanobots? And why? Who do you work for?"

The man regarded him. "You don't really want to know who I work for."

Sam noticed again that the man had the weirdest eyes. They were dark and unfathomable. As they stared at each other, suddenly, Sam was struck. He knew. He KNEW. "Your name's not Jeff is it?" He swallowed hard, leaned over the table and whispered "It's Death!"

Jeff smiled, made his finger and thumb into a pistol and 'shot' Sam. "You got me."

"Holy shit." There was silence for two minutes as Sam stared into space and Jeff/Death drank his beer, a faint smile on his lips.

Okay, so this guy was Death, Sam reasoned. That explained a lot. But did it give him any right to fuck around with Sam, killing him almost every day? There must be some sort of paranormal code of conduct outlawing that kind of thing. He looked again at the guy. The guy was looking down at the table top. Now that Sam couldn't see his eyes, the guy looked...ordinary. "So what's the deal?" Sam demanded. "You look like a normal guy – jeans, sweatshirt. Bit pale, bit thin, but, you know. Kinda ordinary. Not the grim reaper type."

"Shall I let you in on a little secret?" Jeff/Death said. Sam nodded, almost involuntarily and at once the room surged, as if it had just taken a deep breath. Sam gasped. Everything had changed. Vivid colors flooded into his eyes and washed over his retinas. He was suddenly acutely aware of the humanity in the room. He could feel their heat, smell their sweat and beer breath, hear them breathing and chewing and swallowing, and digesting and farting. He could hear their hearts beating.

Most startling though were the clocks. Every single person in the bar had a neon blue digital clock readout hovering about six inches over their heads. All the numbers were counting down, the seconds tumbling past one another.

"Welcome to my world," Jeff/Death said, draining his beer. Sam turned back to face him and yelped. Death (for now it was impossible to think of him as Jeff), was wearing a black cowl. The hood cast dark shadows across his face. He also seemed to be wearing black lipstick and kohl eyeliner. At his side, just outside the booth, he held a weed-whacker upright in one hand.

"Weed-whacker?" Sam asked, faintly.

"Well, this is the 21st century..." Death replied, then waited a beat. "Nah, I'm just kidding with ya." Instantly the weed whacker turned into a traditional Grim-Reaper type scythe. Sam yelped again.

"Take it easy," Death said. "People are staring."

A waitress approached the table. "You boys alright?" she asked, her face screwed up in mock concern.

"Double scotch, no ice," Sam barked.

The waitress nodded. Sam caught a wave of her cloying perfume mingled with underarm sweat and cheese sandwiches. Her heartbeat was slow and steady. Sam looked up at her. Her clock was casting a blue glow over her broad freckled face. It read 00.08.14.12. 26.32. "How about you?" she said to Death.

Death waved his beer bottle at her. It was full again. "I'm good."

"Okey-dokey," she said brightly. "I'll go get your scotch." She sashayed back to the bar, time ticking away above her.

"Eight months, fourteen days, twelve hours," said Death. "The minutes are kind of flexible – I can use my discretion."

"What?" Sam squeaked.

"That's how long she's got left. See, there's a lump in her left breast, and she won't find it for another five months. Then it'll be too late."

"That's terrible! Can't you do something?"

He tut-tutted. "Sam, I'm Death!" With a shrug, he added, "It's a living."

The waitress returned. "That'll be six dollars, honey," she said, slopping down Sam's drink. Sam stared at her. She was in her late thirties or early forties, a little overweight, her face pretty. There was a wedding ring on her left hand. In the heightened world Sam was seeing, it gleamed. "Six dollars," she repeated a little uneasily.

Sam pulled out a twenty and stuffed it into her hand. It was one of the twenties his dad had given him that afternoon when he had once again returned Sam's personal effects. "Keep the change," he told the waitress hoarsely. At once her expression softened.

"Well gee, thanks," she said, smiling. "You be sure and let me know if there's anything else I can do for you boys." She began to move away, but Sam called out after her.

"Miss... I think you should go to the doctor... get a thorough check-up."

Her smile dropped a tad, but a twenty was a twenty. "Okey-dokey," she said in a sing-song voice, moving quickly away. "Weirdo," Sam heard her add under her breath.

"Seeing a doctor won't help her," said Death. "You can't change the clocks." He took a long pull on his beer. "You can't cheat Death." He thought for a moment. "Actually, you can if you wear a hat – it makes the clocks impossible to read. Lincoln got an extra few hours thanks to his hat. He was supposed to be trampled by a horse, but that damn stovepipe got in the way... By the time he took it off at the theater, his clock was in negative figures. Never mind, I got him in the end..."

Suddenly, Sam snatched up the table's stainless steel napkin dispenser, knocking over a bottle of ketchup. The dark red gloop splattered onto Death's robe like blood.

"Ah, you got me!" he said, clutching his chest and grinning.

Sam ignored him, staring instead at his own reflection in the polished metal of the napkin dispenser. Yes, he had a clock too. Only his was the mathematical sign for infinity – looking like the number 8 having a lie-down.

He stared at the symbol of eternity – the snake eating its own tail. "Pretty cool, huh," said Death.

"You said you can't change the clocks!" Sam said indignantly.

"Well," said Death. "Not ordinarily. I mean, not for most people. But I get bored, so I've been given license to play around a bit." He took another swig. "But only if someone challenges me. You know, 'laughs in the face of Death'. That kind of thing."

"I didn't challenge you!" Sam blustered.

"Oh yeah? You sure about that Mr. I'm Immortal, I'm Bullet-proof, I'm Un-fucking-touchable?"

"Oh," said Sam. Bleakly, he looked around the bar. The garish colors swam in his vision. The cloying smells of alcohol, perfume and sweat made him want to vomit. He put his arms on the table and buried his face in them.

"It's alright, Kid," said Death. "You're not the first. Remember Rasputin? Wouldn't stay dead. Evel Knievel? Hard guy to kill. And all those little old ladies living into their nineties? Laughing at Death, I tell ya."

"So, this is all some kind of game?" Sam said, waving at his infinity clock. "Some kind of a joke?"

"Death doesn't joke, Kid," said Death, seriously. He snapped his fingers and suddenly he was wearing a Groucho nose and moustache. "Nah, just kidding," he said.

"I feel sick," Sam muttered.

"Hold that thought," Death said. "There's something I've gotta do." He looked over at the bar where a group of suited businessmen were sucking back cocktails and laughing. "Shazam," Death said, pointing a finger casually at the man in the middle. Immediately, the guy clutched his chest, his face turned ashen and he toppled off his barstool.

"Jesus!" Sam yelled, leaping to his feet.

"Call an ambulance!" shouted one of the businessmen. They dragged their buddy into a sitting position and loosened his tie. The doomed waitress rushed over with a glass of water.

"Sit down, Kid," Death said.

Sam sat. "Jesus. Why'd you do that?"

"It's his time," Death replied.

Sam looked at the gray man who was now wheezing pathetically. "His clock says 00 00 03 06 and change. That's what? Three days and six hours you owe him!"

"Yup. They'll stabilize him at the hospital, release him in two days when they need the bed, and he'll have another attack in his sleep the next night. Not everyone goes at once, do they? Variety is, I like to say, the spice of Death."

Sam grunted. "So have you already shazammed that waitress?"

"No, I'll shazam her closer to the end of her time – don't want her soul leaving her body too soon. She might decide to become a realtor."

"I feel sick," Sam said again.

"It's the colors," said Death. "You get used to them after a few centuries. Not the smells though." He waved his arm. "There, all gone."

The room returned to normal. Compared to the cacophony of noise, the clash of colors and the reek of the crowd, Sam's senses were shocked by the lack of input. The world had lost its zing. Watching Sam, Death smiled, clicked his fingers and a lone tumbleweed swept past their table, unobserved by anyone else. "Quit showing off," Sam said.

"Sorry," Death said, looking sheepish. He looked just like an ordinary deathly-skinny guy again, in sweatshirt and jeans.

Two paramedics entered the bar and collected the sick man, as Sam and Death sat in silence, watching, and in Sam's case, thinking.

"So that's it?" he said finally. "You point a finger, say 'shazam', and the dude's a goner."

"Well, technically I don't have to say 'shazam'. I could say 'ta-dah," or 'izzy-wizzy, let's get busy'. As long as the intent to take their souls is there. Used to be I had to actually reap them with the scythe. They'd be all slashed open, and their souls would leek out. Really messy from my point of view and quite gory, although completely unseen by mortals." He finished the beer. "I much prefer the new system. The scythe was a bitch to keep sharp. Now it's just sort of ornamental."

"How many of you are there?"

Death stared at Sam. He twisted to look at the empty spots beside him on the bench. He looked pointedly at Sam's scotch. "Well, how many of me do you see?"

"No, I mean how many Deaths are there? You can't possibly be responsible for murdering everyone on the planet. How many people die every second?"

"Hey!" Death said. "Careful with the m-word! You can say I take souls, reap or even kill. That's fine. You can say that I facilitate their kicking of the bucket. Or make possible the pushing up of the daisies. Or ease the shuffling off of the mortal coil. But I don't murder anyone. I'm doing a job here, fulfilling a basic need. Without Death there can be no life, right? Anyway, the answer is about 2."

"Huh?"

"Deaths per second, round the world, and yes, I do them all. It's a bit complicated – I can sort of be in lots of places at once."

"You're omnipotent?"

Death's pale face flushed. "Let's not get personal," he mumbled.

"Omnipotent," Sam explained. "Meaning you can be everywhere at once."

"Oh," Death said, relaxing. "Nah. It's more like I'm time-traveling. Like I'm here with you, having this chat, only I keep popping off to shazam people. And I come back before you can even notice I'm gone. Actually, I'm going and returning between every word in this sentence. I'm also simultaneously hanging out in about a hundred bars around the world. I like bars. And it's good to get a feel for the locals. Helps with the shazaming."

"So you shazam everyone in the world. Even little babies?"

Death shrugged. "If their clocks say their time is up, then their time is up. I don't make the clocks."

Sam leaned across the table and whispered, "Then who does?"

Death chuckled. He leaned across the table and whispered, "I can't tell you."

Sam sat back. "Still," he said, shuddering. "Innocent little babies!"

Death frowned. "Maybe death isn't so bad. Has that occurred to you? Maybe they're going to a better place."

"Are they?"

"I can't tell you."

Sam picked up his glass, but the scotch was long gone. He ran his hands through his hair, sighing, aware that Death was watching. "By my reckoning, I've died seven times since meeting you, and I don't remember going to a better place."

"Well, that's just it. You don't remember."

Sam sighed again, and they sat in silence. "Do you really want to know what death's like?" Death asked at last.

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Well, okay," Death said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "But it's not something a mortal should know." Sam made a rude face and gestured over his head to where he now knew his infinity clock was. Technically, he wasn't a mortal. Death looked up and grinned. "Yeah, alright. Well, let's see. You snuff it, right? Then, depending on your religion, any one of a number of things can happen. Let's just say you embark on a quest to find your Final Resting Place Beyond the Veil."

"That sounds a bit vague," Sam said, frowning. "How about some details?"

"Alright," said Death. He thought for a moment. "Well, you'll be doing this quest in the nude, wearing only a pair of shoes."

"In the nude?" Sam repeated. Death nodded. "Wearing only shoes?" Death nodded again.

"Clothes can't transcend beyond the veil," Death said, solemnly.

Sam was incredulous. "Clothes can't transcend, but shoes can?"

"Yes," Death said, nodding earnestly. "You see, shoes have soles."

They stared at each other for two long minutes. Sam couldn't believe he'd fallen for the old joke. So, Death liked cheesy comedy. It figured. "Fine," Sam said at last. "You can't tell me about death. I get it."

"Sorry," Death said. He looked at his watch. "Oh, man, I gotta go soon. Big earthquake due in Asia, and when the death toll's in the thousands I really have to be there. Actually properly there." He stood up, and extended a hand for Sam to shake. "I hope the immortality thing's working out for you. It was nice to see you again. We should get together every century or so – you know, have a game of poker."

"Wait," Sam yelped. "Don't go! I came here because I hate the immortality thing and I want to know how to stop it!"

Death sat down again, frowning. "I've got a few minutes," he said. "Go on."

"Well," said Sam. "That's it really. I'm sorry if you thought I was laughing in the face of... well, you, but I don't want to be immortal, and I wish to be returned to my normal mortal self. Please."

"What if I told you that on the day we met, your clock had less than a week to run?"

"Er...did it?"

"No, actually, you've got fift –"

"Stop!" Sam held up a hand. "I don't want to know!"

Death shrugged. "Yeah, okay. So yes, you've got a number of years left. But it's still finite. Are you sure you want to go back to that?"

"I've met this girl," Sam said. "And she's not going to live forever."

"Ah," said Death. "So should I whammy her too? Give her the old infinity clock?"

"No!" Sam cried. "Not if it means she's going to die every day too. Do you know how annoying that is? What is with that, by the way? Just a sick joke, or is it the only way to become immortal?"

Death looked chagrined. "Well, you see, that wasn't me. You see, I laid the immortality trip on you, and then this...guy I know added the whole daily death curse. We kind of have this bet going about how long you'll stick at it."

"A bet!"

"Mmm. I said you'd last at least a year before you topped yourself, but he said 'no way,' that he knew you better than that."

"Topped myself? That's a joke, right?"

"Oh, no – you can die, if you do it in a permanent fashion – something like decapitation or maybe an 'accident' with an industrial meat grinder. Something your body can't heal."

Sam looked disgusted. "What about my clock?"

"I'm guessing that as soon as you jumped in the meat grinder, the clock would get all mangled too. I probably wouldn't get informed, and so I wouldn't be there to release your soul." He thought for a minute. "That would really suck."

"So, who is this other guy?" Sam asked, eyes narrowing.

"I can't tell you." Death looked down at the table top.

"And what's the stake? What did you bet?"

"My scythe. If I lose, he'll get my scythe. How embarrassing would that be? Death losing his scythe. I mean, it's only symbolic, but still... I've had it forever!"

"And what does he lose if I make a year?"

"A pitchfork."

"Ah," said Sam. His mouth had gone very suddenly dry. "Well," he said at last, "I really don't want to throw myself into a meat grinder, nor do I want to die another several thousand deaths, so how about calling off the bet?" He raised his eyes hopefully. Death shook his head. "Aw, come on!" Sam cajoled. "It's only a damn yardwork tool!" Death looked at his nails. "Fine. What about the...uh... other guy? Can I get him to call off the bet?"

Death looked up, his sunken eyes full of alarm. "I wouldn't recommend negotiating with...him. You won't like the price! You've got to trust me on this." For once the guy looked serious. Deadly serious.

"Ah," said Sam. "Okay, I won't like his price. What about your price, then? What's the scythe worth to you?"

Death considered for a few moments. "I'd like a ride-on lawnmower," he said at last.

"Done!" Sam said, beaming.

"And I want to get laid."

"Sorry?"

"I want to get laid."

Sam was flummoxed. "You want to get laid? But you're Death!"

"So? I have... needs."

Sam shrugged. "Well, ok, so, I'll get you a hooker."

Death shook his head. "That won't work. Believe me, I've tried. For me to...ah...know a woman, she must be aware of who I am and give herself willingly and freely. It's the rules."

"Whose rules?"

"I can't tell you."

"So how have you managed in the past?"

Death blushed again.

"OH MY GOD, you're a VIRGIN!"

All chatter in the bar ceased and all eyes turned to their table. A young blonde woman giggled. "Shazam," Death whispered, wiggling a finger at her.

"Oi!" said Sam. "Don't do that!"

"Oh, calm down. She won't die for another thirty-seven years," Death said. "I just gave her the urge to start smoking, okay?"

"So, you've never done it... How old are you?" Sam asked him.

Death shrugged. "I dunno. Four or five hundred? When were the plagues? I lose track." He looked at his watch again, still clearly embarrassed. "Listen, I gotta go."

"Wait," Sam said again. "A ride-on mower, and the 'love' of a good woman, freely given? That's all you want and then you'll un-whammy me? Have we got a deal?" He stuck out his hand.

Death nodded. "She doesn't have to be good," he added. "I'm not choosy." He shook Sam's hand, sucking the warmth from it, and vanished. Sam thrust his icy hand under his armpit and stared at the blank spot where Death had been.

Outside on the street, Jenny was waiting for him, and looking extraordinarily pleased with herself. "What?" he asked her.

"Look," she said, pointing. Her car was parked in a space parallel to the curb. About a foot and a half away from the curb, granted, but in the space nonetheless.

"Good for you," Sam said.

"So, did you find out what's going on?" Jenny asked him. Sam looked grim, and nodded. "Do you want to come back to my place and talk?" Jenny suggested. "I've got some groceries I need to get home. And you can pick up OJ."

Sam had forgotten about the cat. "Actually," he said, "would you mind taking him until this is all over? I don't want him to starve because I happen to be dead... Or for that matter make a meal of my corpse." Jenny agreed. They climbed into her car, and after rolling back and forth several times, she lurched out of the parking space and they were off.

# Chapter Seventeen

"So, now you're pimping for Death?" Jenny asked him. Sam nodded. They were standing in the kitchenette section of her tiny apartment. OJ was curled up on the windowsill alongside Karen, an elegant calico. Both cats regarded him haughtily for a moment and then went back to sleep. Jenny was unpacking groceries from a paper bag labeled Health-Plus Organics. She pulled out a bottle of green liquid and plucked a glass off the draining board. The glass had a kitten decal stuck on it. Jenny sloshed the green liquid into the glass and offered it to Sam. "Spirulina?" He shook his head – it looked gross. She shrugged and took a sip. "So, if you find Death a... date... you're off the hook? You'll be mortal again?"

"That's what he said."

Jenny looked thoughtful. She pulled a small white bag out of the grocery sack and opened it. "Glace pineapple?"

Inside the bag were several shriveled pieces of what looked like yellow plastic. Sam took a piece to be polite. It wasn't bad – in fact it tasted like a lump of sugar. If this was health food, he was all for it.

"What about a prostitute?"

Sam shook his head. "I asked him. He said the...sex... had to be freely offered by a woman who knew who he was. I guess that's why he's never gotten any."

Jenny sighed. "And this is the only way?"

"Apparently." Sam replied. "Unless I want to try negotiating with some guy with a pitchfork... I suspect that would be jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. So to speak." He reached for more glace pineapple.

Jenny nodded, and began to chew on her bottom lip, thinking. They were silent for a few moments. Jenny stared at the kitten decal. Sam stared at Jenny. She really was gorgeous.

Finally she met his eye. "Okay," she said, nodding slowly. "I'll do it."

Sam was dumbstruck, and mortified. Oh God, had she thought he was asking her to help him out? He'd never do that! The thought of Jenny sleeping with anyone else was enough to make him crazy, but the thought of Jenny popping Death's cherry? Ick! Ick, icky, icky!

She was regarding him calmly, unblinking, her jaw set in determination, waiting for his response. He couldn't believe it. She was willing to sacrifice herself for him. Of course he wouldn't let her. He would find someone else. But just the thought of her noble offer brought a lump to his throat.

He opened his mouth to reassure her that it would not be necessary, but no words came. The lump in his throat was not in fact a lump of gratitude. It was a lump of glace pineapple. As this information filtered through to his brain, he raised his hands to his throat, and tried to cough. It was no good. The lump was wedged firm. His eyes began to water, and his vision swam. He heard Jenny say "Aw, shit Sam," and saw her run behind him as he sank to his knees. He felt her strong thin arms wrap around his torso and her fist thrusting beneath his sternum. Heimlich, he thought. A nice little maneuver, but too late for me. It was his last thought before he died.

#

Bethany sat alone in the dark, thinking. She was vaguely disappointed that Lawrence had left. Now that he wasn't actively ogling her, he was actually quite good company. Before he had gone, he'd warned her that her brother and his gang were planning something – something to do with Sam, that they didn't want him to know about. She wondered if she would be able to eavesdrop on them, and even went into the bathroom next to his room, and pushed a glass up against the adjoining wall, but all it did was magnify the horrible music he was playing. The voices remained a murmur. The few times she had seen Gerald – when he came out for food, or to use the bathroom, he had walked erect, his manner confident, and she observed that he had even showered. Bethany supposed that he was no longer feeling guilty about Sam's death, and such a rapid turnaround probably meant that he had worked out that Sam hadn't really died. Damn.

So, what was she to do? Wait until Saturday? It seemed unlikely that Sam would remain dead until then. Break into the funeral home? No – if she was caught again by the police, it wouldn't be a warning this time.

#

When Sam came around, his throat was aching. Something the size of a tennis ball was lodged in it. He coughed and the pineapple lump shot out, adhering itself to the kitchen cabinets opposite. He was slumped by the sink. His ribcage ached, his head pounded and his tongue appeared to have been replaced by a small woodland creature. God, death was a bitch. Staggering to his feet, he snatched up the spirulina and drank deeply. It tasted like pond scum.

A piece of paper lay on the floor next to the spot his corpse had recently vacated. As his mortal injuries receded, he snatched it up and tottered into the living room, flinging himself onto the plump baby blue sofa.

Dear Sam,

Sorry you died! Still, hopefully it's the last time for a good few decades! I've gone off to find this Death guy. I figured he'd like black lacy panties, right? I hope you feel better soon. I don't know when I'll be home. I guess we'll go to his place (eek – wonder if it'll be all gothic and castle-y?) Stay as long as you like and help yourself to what's in the fridge, okay? Only, make sure you chew properly, because I don't want you choking again! After all, the next time you die it might be for keeps (fingers crossed!)

Love,

Jenny (Death's Ho! Tee hee.)

Sam crumpled the note into a ball and squeezed it in his fist. Then he smoothed it out and looked at it again. It was on lavender notepaper with a cluster of silly purple flowers in the corner. He folded it carefully and put it in his shirt pocket. He looked at his watch. Shit. He had been dead for three hours. The Shakespeare Inn was the only lead Jenny had had. Maybe Death hadn't returned there yet, after dealing with the earthquake. Maybe Sam would get lucky and Death would be called away to another massacre somewhere before he had the chance to get busy with Jenny. Sam grimaced at this glimmer of hope. I can't believe I'm wishing for thousands of people to die just so that the girl I fancy won't get boned by Death!

But the thought of Jenny with Death made him gag. Yep, he wanted to be mortal again, but not this way. He had to stop her. Suddenly he remembered – he had her phone number. Shakily he entered the number into his cellphone. He pressed send, and groaned when her ringtone started up in the apartment. Just to be sure, he followed the sound through to her bedroom, which was neat and tidy, if a bit cute. The phone was sitting on her bedside table, connected to a charger. Fuck! He'd have to track her down and stop her, before it was too late.

Snatching up a pen, he scrawled a quick note in case she brought Death back to her apartment while he was out.

Jenny: Don't do it! Wait for me. Will explain later.

Then he bolted out the front door, clomped down the stairs and darted out into the street, straight into the path of a taxi. The cabdriver slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop, sliding into Sam, its bumper just nudging his leg. "Hey Buddy," the driver yelled out the window. "I coulda killed ya!"

Sam held up a hand and jogged around the side of the cab, yanked open the door and threw himself in. "Sorry, I'm in a hurry. Can you get me to the Shakespeare Inn, corner of Hastings and Newkirk?"

The cab peeled away, and Sam slumped back in his seat. It was true, the cab could have killed him. Probably should have killed him, according to the cosmic plan. Did this mean that the curse was already lifted? Was he too late to stop Jenny?

The cab pulled up outside of the pub and Sam leaped out, throwing a twenty at the driver. He pushed open the door and took in the dim interior. The place was virtually deserted – no sign of Death, and no sign of Jenny. A soppy English ballad was playing on the jukebox – Scarborough Fair or Greensleeves maybe. Jenny would know.

Sighing, Sam described Jenny to the barman. "Yep," he replied. "She was here a few hours ago. Left with this tall skinny freak. Wouldn't have thought he was her type...They made a weird looking couple."

Sam nodded, and left. He wasn't sure what to do or where to go. Really, he should go back to Jenny's place and wait for her so he could thank her for what she'd done. But he couldn't bear the thought. He could go back into the Shakespeare Inn and get drunk. Yeah, that was appealing. But then what if Death returned, looking all smug and freshly laid?

# Chapter Eighteen

Sam went back home, stopping first at a bottle store for tequila. As he walked down the steps to his front door, he heard a voice coming from his apartment. A female voice, high and strident. Not Jenny. Then a male responded, low and indistinct. Those fucking teenagers? Were they back? Angry now, Sam raised the tequila bottle above his head, like a club, and put his hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly. The door was unlocked.

A wall of patchouli, sandalwood and jasmine affronted his nostrils, and he sneezed. The occupants of the apartment whirled round. "Oh," said Sam, and lowered the bottle of tequila. "Hi, Dad. Hi, Candice." What was she doing here?

His father's tiny wife bounded up to him, her cloud of bushy henna-ed hair bouncing, and threw thin ropy arms around him, hugging him fiercely. Sam wondered where her strength came from. Surely not from her macro-biotic yogurt and sprout diet. "You are alive!" she said. "I knew good things would happen if I just visualized and said my affirmations, but this is more than I was expecting!"

Sam tore himself away from her. He put the tequila down on the kitchen bench, then went to open a window, to let some of the cloying incense-scented air escape out into the night. Candice frowned at this, but didn't say anything. The air cleared a bit, and now Sam began to notice the other changes to his apartment. Tea-light candles twinkled on every available surface. Their light was reflected from various crystals which hung from the ceiling, door and window frames on thin strands of thread. His furniture had been rearranged too.

Candice had perched herself on the edge of the sofa, and was babbling something incoherent. Behind her back, Sam watched as his father went into the kitchen, turned on the faucet, pulled out three tumblers, filled one with water and carefully poured tequila into the other two. He put a finger to his lips. Sam tried not to grin. His dad put the two tequila glasses in one hand and picked up the water glass with the other. He brought the drinks through and handed the water to Candice. His wife took a sip and wrinkled her button nose. "Oh, Honey Bear!" she admonished. "This isn't filtered!" She put the tumbler down carefully on the glass coffee table, regarding it as if it contained toxic waste.

Then she turned her regard towards Sam. Her face was grave. "Oh, Sam, sweetie," she said. "You look terrible! Your aura is black!" Sam just shrugged. "It's no wonder, given you've had all this trouble. I mean to say – two cases of corpses being mistaken for you! What are the odds?" Sam looked at his dad, who shook his head slightly. Ah, so he hadn't told Candice the truth about Sam's recurring deaths. Good. She would only proclaim it a miracle. "Still," she went on, "you have brought bad karma on yourself to some extent. I mean to say – the feng shui of this apartment for a start – all wrong. I've realigned it for you as best I could. And, Sam – I've looked in your fridge-freezer too. So much meat! I've put it all in the bin, and tomorrow, we'll go shopping for some proper food."

Sam groaned. "Candice..." he began, but she cut him off.

"Now, we need to get you into alignment too. Strip off and lie on the sofa."

This was too much. "No, Candice, I'm fine, really."

Her face clouded over. "A healing massage can do wonders, Sam. I can send my positive energy down through my fingertips and into your body. We can clear away that black aura in no time."

"Really, Candice, I'm fine. I don't need a massage."

Candice shot Sam's dad a look. "Honestly, the men in this family. I mean to say – so inhibited! I hope Spenser doesn't turn out like you two." Sam thought of the few times he'd met his spoiled little two year old half-brother. Every time he'd seen him the boy had been screaming and wailing, expressing some primal need. Inhibited? No...

"Okay, well, at least let me check your irises," she said. Sam sighed and nodded, while his dad looked on sympathetically. Sam supposed it wouldn't hurt, and it would make Candice happy. Then maybe the two of them would leave and he could get on with the self-indulgent business of drinking and moping about Jenny.

Candice removed a small pocket flashlight from a capacious purse. She shone it into first one of Sam's eyes, then the other, staring intently and tut-tutting. "Not good, Sam," she said. "You're not eating right, and not getting enough sleep. Your third eye probably isn't getting enough light either."

"Huh?" said Sam.

"Your pineal gland." She tapped a forefinger on his forehead between his eyes. "Here. What I recommend is lying quietly for fifteen minutes a day in a darkened room. Hold a full-spectrum flashlight up against your forehead, flooding the third eye with light. That should really pay off in a few weeks. Here, you can have this flashlight, if you want. The bulb is full-spectrum."

This sounded ridiculous to Sam. "But... don't I have skull-bone in the way? How does the light get to my...uh...gland?"

"Silly-billy," Candice said, smiling. "Don't you know any physics? I guess you artsy-writer types aren't up on the sciences." She leaned forward as if confiding a secret. "It's photons..."

"Oh," said Sam, bleakly.

"Anyway, the treatment has worked wonders for your father, right Honey-Bear?" Sam looked past Candice to his father. His father nodded and smiled at her then took a big swig of his pretend-water tequila. She beamed. Poor sad bastard, Sam thought.

"Well, that's all I can do. I mean to say – that's all I can do tonight. We'll let you get some sleep, then go shopping in the morning." She stood up, ready to leave. Sam's dad stood too, draining his glass in one go, then surreptitiously popping a couple of mints, no doubt to cover up his alcohol breath.

"What about all this?" Sam said, gesturing at the crystals, incense and candles.

"Oh, you can keep those," she said. Then she looked wistfully at one of the larger crystals. "Although... I'll just take this one if you don't mind. The hotel has a lot of negative energy," she glowered at Sam's dad here, and Sam suspected the hotel had been the subject of at least one argument so far, "and I think this big boy can dispel some of it." She carefully took down the crystal, wrapped it in a tissue from her pocket, and inserted it into the outsize purse. Then she let out a squeal as her hands closed on something inside. "Sam!" she exclaimed. "I nearly forgot! Come, sit down again."

Warily, and wearily, Sam sat down on the sofa. Candice sat cross-legged on the floor opposite him, the glass coffee table between them. With a sigh, Sam's dad flopped down in the armchair, looking wistfully at his empty glass. Candice reached into her bag and pulled out...a set of tarot cards. Sam groaned inwardly.

"Alright," she said. "First I need to choose your signifier. The card that represents you. Let's see..." she began to riffle through the cards. They were face up. "I think the Knight of Cups would be best for a creative, artistic type..."

"Wait!" Sam said, so loudly and abruptly, that Candice froze. He was staring at the pack. Slowly he reached out to the deck, spread in Candice's hands, and pulled out one particular card. Candice looked at him quizzically, one eyebrow raised.

"That's the Magician," she said. "Does this card have some special significance for you, Sam?"

Sam studied the card. It showed a man wearing a long robe, standing behind an altar. Above his head floated an infinity symbol. Sam stared, open-mouthed. "Sam?" Candice said, again. Sam shook his head, and wordlessly returned the card to Candice. She looked at it. "Well, the Magician is creative – I guess he would make a good signifier."

She put the card face-up on the table, and then handed Sam the remainder of the deck. She asked him to shuffle the cards, stopping when it felt right to do so. He did so, and passed the deck back to her. Deftly, she dealt out seven cards, face down, arranged in an arc below the signifier. "This is an ellipse spread. The seven cards represent different aspects of a problem. The signifier represents you. Having it there will keep the reading on track and focused, okay?"

Sam nodded. Behind Candice's back, his dad rolled his eyes.

"This card is your past," Candice said, flipping over the first card. "Hmmm, the Hermit." Sam looked at the card. It showed an old man in a long robe, holding a lantern and staff. "This card," Candice said, tapping it with a blunt fingernail, "represents wisdom. But in this case, the card is reversed. That means that you have been unwilling to listen to the advice of people who know better." She allowed herself a tight, smug smile.

"The next card," she said, flipping it, "is your present." The card showed a foppish young man, blissfully unaware that he was about to step off the edge of a cliff. Underneath the picture was written: The Fool. Sam grunted. Yeah, that was him alright. "The Fool," said Candice. "This represents big changes – a big adventure you are going through." She looked up at Sam, saw him nod slightly, and smiled. "You have to follow your heart, and accept the new changes."

Sam frowned. He knew tarot reading, like healing crystals, auras, and everything else Candice espoused, was a load of crap. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but apply her words to his own situation.

"Card three represents the future." Flip. A dark cloaked figure was depicted. He was standing beside two golden cups, staring down at three other cups which had fallen, spilling red liquid onto the ground. Sam couldn't help but think of Jeff/Death. "Oh," said Candice. "The five of cups, otherwise known as the Lord of Disappointment. I guess you're about to be disappointed, somehow." Huh. No kidding.

"Let's try card four – this one tells us what you can do about your problem." She flipped the card at the bottom of the semi-circle, and Sam let out an involuntary groan. The card showed a young blonde woman, who looked a bit like Jenny. She was cradling the head of a lion. The infinity symbol hovered over her head too. "Ah, here's some good news. The Strength card. It means you are in sight of your goals. Be patient and persevere. Love will triumph over evil." Candice looked up at Sam expectantly, and was disconcerted to find him looking even grumpier than before. Despite himself, Sam was thinking about Jenny's 'sacrifice'. Is that what this card meant?

"Okay..." said Candice, as she turned card number five. "This is the external influences that will have a bearing on your problem. Oh, it's the Lovers!" On the card a naked man and woman stood, looking very much like Adam and Eve. The woman had a voluptuous figure. An angel looked down on them, the sun behind her making a golden halo, reminding him of Jenny leaning over his coffin, her blonde hair aglow. "It means that you must make a choice between sacred love," she tapped the angel, "and profane love." She tapped the woman. "You must overcome temptation..."

Profane love! Sam squirmed, and Candice moved quickly on. She flipped card number six. A big red heart dominated the card. It was skewered through with three long swords. Rainclouds in the background wept. "Oh dear," said Candice. "Um..."

"Go, on," said Sam. "A broken heart, right?"

"Well... the three of swords is also known as the Lord of Sorrow. Sometimes it can mean unhappiness – such as a loss or a separation." Candice was looking dolefully sympathetic – but then she brightened. "Oh, but Sam – this is card number six, which represents your hopes and fears. This just means that you fear loss and separation. It doesn't mean it will actually happen!"

Well, she's got that right, anyway, Sam thought. I do fear loss and separation. Jenny...where are you?

"Let's see what the last card has to say," Candice said. "Card seven is the most important anyway – it's the final outcome." Even before she turned the card, Sam knew what it would be. It was as inevitable as... well, as death and taxes, really.

The card showed a skeleton in dark robes, riding a white horse. He held a banner on which was painted a white rose. Underneath, the legend: Death. He stared at the figure, unblinking. Well, that could mean anything, given his present situation, couldn't it?

"Now, Sam," Candice was saying. "A lot of people are scared of this card, but actually, it's a good one. It stands for transformation and new opportunities, ultimate rebirth and renewal."

Sam stared at card, focusing on the curve of the rider's skull. Suddenly he was angry. Tired, frustrated, worried, but most of all, angry. Why should he put up with this woman who had come first into his teenage life, turning everything topsy-turvy, and now was barging into his adult life, with her crazy Wiccan worldview? He didn't have the time or energy for this. He had been polite to her in the past, for his dad's sake, and because that was the kind of person he was, but man, was she spouting a lot of crap. Suddenly he felt like telling her.

He picked up the Death card, and examined it closely. "Rebirth and renewal?" he said.

"Yes," Candice agreed.

"Funny that," Sam said. "Because all I can see is a fucking skeleton on a horse." Candice flinched at the f-word. "There's no cuddly chicks bursting out of eggs, no spring lambs, no fluffy bunnies." He turned the card over mockingly and examined the back, as if the symbols would magically appear there. "If I was designing a methodology for intruding into other people's lives, giving them false hope, or just fucking with them, then I would make sure that the pictures actually reflect what they're supposed to represent. Take rebirth and renewal, for example. I wouldn't choose... let's say... A FUCKING SKELETON ON A HORSE." He threw the card on the table.

His dad stood up. "Sam..."

Sam was about to go on. He was going to tell Candice where she could stick her incense and her healing crystals. He was going to tell her to stuff her organic macro-biotics up there too. But, actually, now he thought of it, wasn't colonic yogurt therapy a new trend? Candice had probably already tried sticking her macro-biotics where the sun don't shine. He took a deep breath, ready to launch in... Ah, but then he noticed tears pricking up in her eyes. She busied herself sweeping up the tarot cards, aligning them and putting them back in their velvet bag. Sam saw his dad regarding him, eyebrows raised.

Sam sighed. "Candice," he said. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm just tired. I know you're trying to help me, but... I just can't believe in this stuff." He gesticulated to the cards, then swept his hand to take in the rest of the room.

Candice sniffed. "It's okay, Sam. You don't have to believe in the crystals for them to work. They can channel my energy. Just leave them for a few days, okay?"

He was about to argue, but caught the hard look in his dad's eyes, and instead capitulated. It was easier.

"I know you say you think it's B.S. But," Candice continued, "don't forget I was watching you during that reading. Every single card I turned over affected you. Don't pretend it didn't. You are the hermit reversed, Sam."

Candice put the cards into the massive purse, then nodded to her husband. Sam walked them to the door. "Maybe you need a daily affirmation," Candice said to Sam.

His dad caught Sam's eye, put his hands on his wife's shoulders, steered her out the door, and said, "Not now, my love. Let's let Sam get some sleep, okay?" Candice turned and walked up the steps to the street. Sam's dad turned back to him and whispered, "I'll call you, okay?"

Sam peered up the steps, watching until they had got into their car. The interior lights faded away, but not before Sam saw that they were arguing. He stalked back into the apartment, and blew out all the candles. He would get rid of the crystals later. It was late, but he was too ravenous to sleep. He wrenched open the fridge, then growled and wrenched open the trashcan instead. Luckily his steaks were right at the top, still in plastic wrap, and still cold. He grilled two of them. He began to cut some up for the cat, but then remembered that Jenny had taken OJ.

Jenny... Was she lying in bed with Death, right at this moment? Had they done the deed? Oh god, he couldn't think about it.

It was hot. Sam stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, switched on the TV and found a wildlife documentary. He sat in front of the TV, his plate on the glass coffee table. He had forgotten to grab a knife and fork, but didn't care. He picked up the first slab of meat with his bare hands. As a lion on the TV began to chow down on the haunch of an unlucky zebra, its slurping, growling noises mingled with Sam's as he bit huge chunks off the steak. Blood dribbled down the lion's chin. Hot juices flowed down Sam's. Ten minutes later the two T-bones were stripped bare, but Sam wasn't satisfied. A lioness brought down a gazelle, while Sam rummaged in the fridge, finding one of those plastic lemons of juice, some salt and a half-jar of tomato salsa. He grabbed the tequila and shuffled back to the sofa. He proceeded to down the tequila, squeezing the lemon juice and salt onto the crook between finger and thumb, and then sucking it noisily. He also ate the salsa with a spoon. Soon, only the worm in the tequila bottle was left. Sam shrugged, then ate that too. He wished he could switch off his brain, but all he could think of was Jenny and Death. Jenny and Death. His icy cold skeleton thin hands caressing her body...

On screen, a lion was sniffing eagerly around the hindquarters of the lioness as she squirmed and panted. Sam knew what was coming next and fished around for the remote. He didn't want to see it. Shit. The remote was gone. He pulled himself up off the sofa, the image of a happily humping lion couple filling his vision. God, he was drunk. And... the furniture was in the wrong place. How had that happened? He tried to remember. Lions... humping. Jenny...and Death... The tarot card with the woman who looked like Jenny, cradling the lion. Love conquering evil. Jenny... and Death... He staggered forward towards the TV set, tripped on the empty tequila bottle, and crashed his knee down into the glass coffee table. It hurt like hell. The table shattered and Sam fell flat onto it. A thick shard of glass pushed into his chest, piercing his heart. Well, isn't that ironic? Sam thought. And then he died.

# Chapter Nineteen

Lawrence's cellphone rang. He felt a fluttery moment of panic. What if Amanda was calling to cancel their date? No, it couldn't be – she'd sounded upbeat when he'd asked her out. It wasn't his mom, because he was at home with her. She was sneaking around in the kitchen, keeping out of his way, possibly a little bit frightened of the new assertive Lawrence. He frowned when he looked at the screen. It was Gerald. "Hello?" Lawrence answered cautiously.

"Hey man? How's it going?"

"Fine."

"Do you want to come 'round tonight? We've got DVDs and popcorn."

"I've got a date."

Silence. Then, "Ah, come on, Lawrence. Don't make me say it!"

"Say what?"

Lawrence heard Gerald take a deep breath. "Alright then, I'm sorry. We all are."

"Ursula too?"

"Um...yeah, Ursula too."

"Really? Is she there?" Muttering in the background, a quick whispered conference. "Um, no."

"Put her on."

More whispering, sounding increasingly heated. Then Ursula, her voice falsely sunny. "Hi Lawrence! Please won't you come over tonight? We all miss you!"

"Can't. Got a date. Put Gerald back on."

A snort from Ursula, and then Gerald again. Lawrence was beginning to enjoy himself. "Hey there," Gerald said. "You see, Ursula's sorry too. We shouldn't have sent you away. You're one of my oldest friends and it was really mean of us. So, will you come over?"

"I can't. I told you, I've got a date."

"Really."

"Yes, really. Why is this so hard to understand?"

"Well... you could bring her too..."

Now Lawrence snorted. "Hardly!"

"Okay then, what about this afternoon? Or...tomorrow morning?"

"Look, Gerald, what do you want, really?"

"Do you still fancy my sister?" Gerald asked him suddenly.

Lawrence thought for a moment. "Well...no, I guess I don't."

At this, Gerald sounded thrown. "Oh. Um... But you do care what happens to her, right? I mean, she's my sister."

"She's my friend," Lawrence said.

"Ok, good," Gerald went on, sounding relieved. "Well, we all want to make sure that nothing happens to her. We're still worried about this Sam guy, and..."

Lawrence cut him off. "Oh come off it! Not this again! You're not going to do anything stupid are you? It was bad enough the first time when we all thought we were murderers. Just leave the guy alone!"

"But he's dead now, right? I thought you said a pool cue through the eye?"

"Yes..."

"All we want to do is just make sure the guy is buried. Properly buried. Then I can stop worrying about him and my sister. Fair enough?"

Lawrence considered. "Okay... but what do you want from me?"

"We just want to know if you know where the funeral is, and when. That's all. We tried phoning around, but no luck."

"That's all? You'll leave me alone if I tell you?"

"If that's what you want."

So Lawrence told him. Gerald said thanks, and then said, "Lawrence?"

"What?"

"You can still come over you know. I mean, you don't really have a date do you?"

"Fuck off, Gerald," Lawrence said, disconnecting. His mother dropped a dish in the kitchen, then covered up her distress with a burst of loud singing. Lawrence recognized the lyrics of 'Stand By Your Man.' Whatever.

#

When Sam came around, soft light was filtering through his blinds. His chest felt sore, and he lifted a hand to it. The piece of glass was gone, and there was only a gash remaining. He could feel the edges of it shrinking as his body knit itself anew. So, he wasn't dead for good, he realized, staring at the ceiling. Relief washed over him. Jenny must not have gone through with it.

He was lying next to the shattered coffee table, a pillow under his head, and legs discretely covered by a blanket. The TV was off. Humming and scrubbing sounds were coming from the bathroom. "Jenny?" he called tentatively, "Candice? Dad?" Jenny emerged, holding his toilet brush and smiling like sunshine. His heart ached at the sight. Or maybe it was the after-effect of having a shard of glass embedded there. He didn't care.

"Well hi there," Jenny said. "Front window was open. Anyone could have climbed in – lucky it was me, huh?" She gestured to his chest. "That looked like a nasty one. I pulled out the glass. How are you feeling?"

Sam smiled and stood up. "It's good to see you."

Her smile faltered. "Maybe you should get changed."

Sam nodded and staggered into the bedroom. He paused in front of the closet mirror. Jesus, he looked terrible. Hair poking up in all directions, stubble on his chin, and a shredded undershirt drenched in blood and salsa. He did the best he could, then went into the living room. Jenny was cleaning up the broken shards of glass, sweeping them into a dustpan.

"Leave it," Sam said.

Not meeting his gaze, Jenny spoke. "Death says to remind you that you owe him a lawnmower."

Shit. Sam's stomach dropped. Of course – the second part of the deal. That's why he was still immortal. Jenny had slept with Death. Sam just needed to complete the deal with the expensive yardworking equipment.

"So, um..." he began. "Does that mean...?"

Jenny looked away, blushing. "I didn't do it, Sam. I'm so sorry."

Sam was elated. He stood there, staring at her.

"I would have," she went on, in a rush. "I wanted to. Well, no, I didn't actually want to – the guy's kinda creepy – but I wanted to help you. Only he said I couldn't."

Sam scoffed. "You're kidding! Death turned you down?"

"Not exactly. I went away with him... creepy gothic-y castle, we were right there... and we started to... well, undress. Then he just told me that I had to give myself willingly and that he could tell I couldn't do that. He said..." she trailed off.

"He said..." Sam prompted.

"He said 'Your heart belongs to another'. Pretty cheesy, huh?" She forced a laugh.

"Oh," said Sam. He wasn't sure what to feel. "So... uh... does it?"

Now she blushed a fetching shade of pink. "Yes, silly. You. I've thought you were cute from the first moment I saw you at the supermarket. And then, at the funeral home, when you were lying on the slab, bones poking out of your leg and chest...mmm-mmm!"

"Oh," Sam said again. "Well, good. I like you too." They stared awkwardly at each other for a few moments, and then Jenny let the dustpan and brush slip from her fingers and crash down into the mess of glass. She bounded over to him and they kissed. It was wonderful.

"Eww," Jenny said when they broke apart. "Tequila and old salsa."

"I'll brush my teeth," Sam said.

When he came out of the bathroom, Jenny was in his bed, stripped down to pink lacy lingerie. Her gym-bunny body was tight and toned, breasts small but perky, the skin on her abdomen soft and silky where he briefly rested his cheek. He shed his clothes as she watched hungrily, then climbed in beside her and they resumed where they had left off.

The phone rang. Jenny tried to pull apart from Sam. "That'll be your dad," she said.

"Mmmm-hmmmph," Sam said. His mouth was otherwise occupied.

"Sam," Jenny insisted. "Please, get the phone." Sam sighed, and reluctantly climbed out of bed. He was still wrestling with his boxers, trying to get them over his throbbing erection while Jenny giggled, when the phone stopped ringing.

"Aha," Sam said, and launched himself back into bed, boxers around his ankles.

"No, Sam," Jenny said, pulling a pillow over her breasts before Sam could get a mouthful. "I forgot. Your dad rang earlier. He said it was important. Really important. So go call him. Pleeease?" She put on a play-pout.

Sam pouted back at her, but pulled up his boxers anyway. He padded through to the living room, his disappointed penis deflating with every step. He called his dad's cellphone.

"Sam!" his dad answered. "I'm glad you called back. I'm in the hotel lobby. Candice thinks I've gone for ice. Look, I'm sorry about last night. Candice wasn't going to come down here for your funeral – your first funeral, that is, the bus one, you know, because of the kids. But then of course I phoned her and told her that they'd lost your body, and then I had to phone her and tell her that you weren't actually dead – that they'd made a mistake. She was very happy. You know she cares about you... in her own special way..."

Sam grunted, and his dad went on. "So, then later, after the pool cue, I called her again, drunk and miserable and told her that you really had died, and that I had killed you. She thought I had gone nuts. She thought about it for a day, then packed the kids off to her parents – which she hates doing, by the way, because they're fascists, apparently, and then she came straight down here, without telling me."

Sam thought about his step-siblings Marla and Spenser, and hoped that some time with Candice's nice, normal parents would set them straight. His dad went on. "So then, when I phoned her to tell her that you were actually alive, she was already almost here. You had gone off with that girl, Jenny – she seems nice, by the way – and so I went to meet Candice at our hotel. I spent the afternoon explaining that you weren't dead – that both times the funeral home had mistaken you for someone else with the same name. She wasn't convinced. She thought I was going nuts with the strain and stress of your death, and spent the whole day at the hotel with me aligning my chakras and massaging my aura. When she'd finished, I still insisted that you were alive, and so she insisted that I prove it. You weren't home, so I insisted we wait. She decided that your apartment had negative energy, and was going to cleanse it, although I think she was just keeping busy. She didn't expect you to show up. Anyway, I just wanted to explain why we were in your apartment, you see?"

"I see," said Sam. He saw.

"Anyway, you know how we sealed up your coffin... well, the funeral is on Saturday, and it would look pretty funny if I don't go, after all the fuss I made. I told Candice I wanted to spend some father-son time here, so she's going back to rescue the kids from her parents before they... ahem... do any harm..." A pity, Sam thought. "So," his dad continued, "I'm going to your funeral on Saturday, and I was wondering if you wanted to join me. I mean – you could pretend to be your own twin brother, or something."

Sam sucked in his breath. "Tempting dad, tempting. But I can't afford the time to go traipsing back across the country, besides which, all my friends know I don't have a twin brother!" Ah, shit, he thought suddenly. His poor friends, thinking he was dead!

His dad sighed. "The funeral will be here, Sam, not back home."

"What!" said Sam. "You would bury me in a strange city? Your own son?"

"It's a FAKE funeral, Sam," his dad reminded him, exasperation creeping into his voice. "McReedy agreed to pay for the coffin, and the cremation, and the service, but I'm not paying to have an empty coffin shipped hundreds of miles."

"Cremation!?"

"FAKE Sam, FAKE. I know you want to be buried. But remember, we're doing this so there's no problems for Jenny, and no enquires by the police about bodysnatchers, right? So we should burn the evidence."

"No, wait dad. When I get this situation sorted and decide to get my identity back, I might need proof that I was never in the coffin, right? So, I think a burial would be best."

His dad grunted. "Okay. I'll phone them and see what I can do. I've already cancelled having you shipped back home – McReedy thinks I'm a nutcase. Oh, and about your friends – I did have the common decency to phone Dave and Simon and tell them you weren't dead. They'll tell your other friends, won't they? Oh, and they say you owe them a phone call or an email at least – when you've got your shit together." Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "So," his dad concluded. "Funeral on Saturday? Pick you up at ten a.m.?"

Sam considered. It could be fun. "Okay Dad," he said. "I'll see you then." That is, he thought, disconnecting, if I'm even alive to make my own funeral!

He sat on the sofa, still holding the telephone, and thought for a while about his friends Dave and Simon back home. He thought about the two funerals they'd attended together – a girl from high school who had been killed by a drunk driver, a boy who'd jumped off a bridge. He was glad his friends didn't have to attend his funeral. Quietly, Jenny padded through and began to massage Sam's neck and shoulder muscles. He groaned. She slipped around in front of him, and pulled out the elasticized front of his boxers, peering within. "Oh," she said, catching sight of his shrunken penis.

"Sorry," Sam said. "I was just thinking about death. Not Death, the bloke. Death, the concept." He stared into space, and Jenny returned to massaging his neck. Sam supposed Jeff/Death had visited those two high school kids. He had read the girl's clock and shazamed her right before the car had plowed into her. He had stood on the bridge, unseen beside the miserable boy, read his clock and shazamed him too. What a bastard, Sam thought. But then, Jeff/Death had said he didn't make the clocks. He was only following orders...

Sam shook himself, and put down the phone. He turned to face Jenny, his neck and shoulders wonderfully loose. "Mmm," he said. "I think maybe your positive energy must have flowed down your fingers and aligned my chakras, or cleansed my aura, or something. I feel great!"

She wrinkled her nose. "What a crock of shit," she said, massaging him again. "You feel great... because the pressure of my fingers... relieved the contractile filaments... of the myofibrils... which make up your skeletal muscle tissue. Chakras my ass."

Sam sighed. "I think I'm in love..." He kissed her on the nose. She smiled.

"Listen," she said, "since Mr. Happy isn't in the mood to party anymore, I thought I could make us some dinner. It's six o'clock."

"Shit!" said Sam. "What day?"

She sighed. "Friday, you noodle."

"Oh," said Sam. "Sounds good. I'm pretty hungry. Actually I'm hungry all the time now, - I guess it's all the repairs my body has to do." He followed her through to the kitchen. "Oh, and by the way, don't let 'Mr. Happy' fool you. He's ready to party anytime you are." He reached out to grab her, but she danced away, grabbing a tea-towel, twisting it in one easy motion and flicking him in the balls. "Ow," he called out. "Right, you're going to pay for that!" He grabbed her around the waist, and buried his head in her neck.

"Truce, truce," she said, breathless. "No hickeys! I have to teach a class tomorrow." He let go of her and she opened the fridge, again wrinkling her pretty nose. "Urg, Sam. You do eat a lot of crap."

"See," he retorted. "This is why I thought you might be into positive energy, and chakras, and auras, and, as you so rightly put it, that crock of shit."

"Wanting to eat healthy food has nothing to do with new age mumbo jumbo." She slammed the fridge. "By the way – I wanted to ask you about that – all these crystals, the incense and the candles – you're not a bit funny yourself, are you?"

Sam shook his head vehemently. "My step-mom did it last night. Horrible, I know."

Jenny was now looking through the cupboards. She sighed in disappointment. "I guess I can make an exception to the healthy eating rule tonight. How about we get Indian delivered?"

Sam made the call, ordering dahl makhani for Jenny, and chicken vindaloo and beef jalfrezi for himself, plus lots of naan, poppadoms, samosas and onion bhajis. They fooled around on the sofa while they waited for it to arrive. Jenny kept making a move to tidy up the mess of the shattered coffee table, the blood and salsa, empty tequila bottle and burnt out candles, but Sam was able to think of endless distractions to stop her. Mr. Happy popped up and announced that he wanted to party, but they decided it would be too horrible for the delivery boy to discover them at it, so they held off.

The food duly arrived, and was wonderful, but not as wonderful as the dessert. Mr. Happy got his party, and lived up to his name.

#

"You've reached Sam Shore. I'm unable to take your call right now. But here comes the beep – you know what to do!"

Beeeeeeeep.

"It's me again. Bethany. Listen – I know you died again on Tuesday night – I saw a news article about it. I know you're at McReedy's and your funeral is scheduled for this morning. The thing is, I would have expected you to have come back to life by now, but McReedy insists you're still in your coffin, dead. I don't know why it's taking you so long to recover, Sam. Maybe you haven't fed recently. I don't know. But I'm worried they're gonna bury you, and you won't have the strength to dig your way out. So – here's what I'm planning..." A deep breath. "I'm going to your funeral, and I'm going to snatch your body before they can fill in the grave. I'm not sure how yet, but I'm working on it. Only, if you wake up before then, and get this message, please can you give me a call? Okay then... bye."

#

Lawrence's right arm was numb. Amanda's head was nestled into the crook of his elbow and she was snoring faintly. Slowly, he eased the arm out, careful not to wake her, and pulled his bulk off the sofa – where they had both fallen asleep the night before. He tiptoed to the kitchen of her apartment to get himself a glass of water, but as he raised the glass to his lips, his cellphone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, using his thumb to muffle the ringtone coming out of the speaker as he checked the display. Bethany.

"Hey, what's up?" he whispered.

"Why are you whispering?"

"Um... it doesn't matter."

"Listen, I need you to do me a huge favor. It's the last one, but it's a biggy."

Lawrence thought for a moment. He wasn't sure he wanted to agree to one of Bethany's crazy schemes – but then again, without her, he wouldn't have met Amanda. So he did owe her...

"What is it?" he whispered.

"I want you to come with me to Sam's funeral today. I'll gather up all the equipment we need, you just have to turn up and give me a hand with the lifting, okay?"

"Lifting?"

Bethany sighed. "Look, Sam's not dead, right? So, I can't let them bury him."

"Body-snatching? You want me to help you steal a corpse? Right out of the ground?"

"It's not stealing!"

"No way, Bethany. I'm not stealing a body in broad daylight!"

"It's that, or come back at night and dig him up."

"Okay."

"What?"

"Okay, we'll do it tonight. But this is the last thing, okay? I've got a life, Bethany!" Lawrence clicked off the phone and leaned against the sink bench, his eyes closed.

"Body-snatching?" Amanda's soft voice sounded bemused. Shit.

#

The blonde wig was tight, and itchy. Bethany longed to scratch under her bangs, but resisted the urge. She was cold, uncomfortable, seething with anger, but having to hide it and pretend to be mournful. The anger had erupted as soon as she caught sight of the other would-be-mourners – or two of them at least. Her brother and Ursula. She had sidled up to him, and hissed, "What the fuck are you doing here?" hoping that the words would be drowned out by the tinny strains of "Time in a Bottle," emanating from a cheap PA system. McReedy had frowned disapprovingly at her, but Bethany was relieved that she had seen no signs of recognition in his eyes.

Ursula smirked at her, and Gerald said, "Why, we've come to pay our respects, of course."

The funeral continued. It was a dreary affair. Apart from herself, her brother and Ursula, there was a middle aged woman, who snuffled into a hankie, and the guy she had seen at the funeral home – Sam's supposed dad. Now she had the chance to stare at him, he did look at bit like Sam, so she guessed it was true. In any case, it was not a big turn out.

There was a standard eulogy from McReedy, packed with vacuous impersonal sentiments, and a brief reading from the dad. Then it was all over. McReedy shook hands with the dad, and moved away to consult with two men, who looked like they worked at the cemetery. The men nodded, and picked up shovels. They began to fill in the hole, burying Sam's coffin. Bethany shuddered despite herself. She saw that McReedy, the dad, her brother and Ursula were all watching intently as the coffin vanished beneath the rich coffee-colored earth. Only the middle-aged woman had left. It took a surprisingly long time, but eventually the hole was filled, the two men soaked in sweat. She watched as McReedy handed the men something – a payoff, presumably. He looked relieved. The dad looked satisfied. Gerald and Ursula looked smug. Bethany kept her own expression neutral. McReedy beetled away, Gerald and Ursula sloped off, and Bethany decided she had better make tracks too, before the dad came to talk to her. She stole one last look at the mound of soil. Until tonight, my love, she thought.

# Chapter Twenty

Sam woke up feeling odd. There was a warm and pleasant ache in his groin. There was a dull and not at all pleasant ache in his head. His brain was fuzzy. Dreamily he remembered last night – the feel of Jenny, her smell, her warmth. Smiling, he rolled over to look at her, but the rest of the bed was empty. "Jenny?" he called out. There was no response.

His bedside clock said 7:36, and for a moment, he thought that this meant twenty four minutes to eight, in the morning. But that couldn't be right. It was dark. Had Jenny blacked out the window for some reason? He crawled out of bed, pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt. His brain throbbed with the movement. "Jenny?" he called again, padding through to the living room, which was still trashed from the night before. She was gone.

Frowning, Sam sat down on the sofa, rubbing his aching temples and trying to cast his mind back to last night. When had she left? He remembered cuddling, teasing, something inventive with two poppadoms and a samosa, then the sex, which was spectacular, and then they had snoozed. Jenny had woken him up around 2 a.m. he remembered, for a second round...then nothing. His mind was a complete blank, almost as though... Uh-oh.

It was dark in the living room too. He got up and peered out the window, seeing a sliver of moon, and the first stars twinkling into view. It definitely wasn't 7:36 a.m. – it was 7:36 p.m. – or, by now a few minutes later. Saturday night he supposed – which meant he'd missed his own funeral. So, here we go again, he thought. Missing time. Had I died? Had I actually died in the middle of sex?

That was always his preferred way to go – at least it was when he was a teenager. But last night? The ache in his head was beginning to subside. Oh shit. His head. He remembered now. He'd had some sort of a brain aneurism or stroke maybe, right at the moment of climax. The pain had been excruciating. And then he'd died. Poor Jenny. She'd got more of a stiff than she'd bargained for. No wonder she'd taken off.

This was terrible. Finally he'd found a girl he fancied who had fancied him back and she was probably totally grossed out by him now. He picked up the phone and realized that there were messages on his voicemail. His dad had phoned to say that Candice had gone and that he would be around soon to collect Sam for the funeral. The next message was from Bethany. He heard her sultry voice saying "Hello, Sam," and disconnected. He didn't have time for Bethany right now. Jenny was all he cared about. Oh God, what if she was so freaked out she never spoke to him again? The next message was his dad saying that he'd tried to collect Sam but that there had been no-one home and where was he? Then there was a third message from his dad – again, where was he?

Sam rang his dad's cellphone, apologizing and assuring his dad of his well-being. He got the run-down on the funeral. McReedy had followed instructions and the coffin was now buried, seal intact. Paula from the gas station had been there, Sam was touched to hear, along with a couple of teenagers and a young blonde woman who looked like Marilyn Monroe, according to his dad. Sam wondered who they were. His dad announced his intention to return to Candice, but urged Sam to keep him updated. Sam rang off.

Now he sat in the darkness and thought about Jenny. He began to enter her number, then hung up. What could he say to her? Sorry, this has never happened to me before? I can't face her, Sam decided, until I know it won't happen again. Know it for certain. Besides which, there's still the matter of the screenplay to write. I have to stop dying!

In the relief of finding out that Jenny had not had sex with Death, and in the excitement of realizing that she was going to have sex with him, Sam realized he had lost sight of his goal. Thinking this reminded him of something Candice had warned him about during his tarot reading, and he pushed the memory aside. Damn that woman!

Sam could make up with Jenny later – when he was back to normal. So, the priority was getting a girl for Death. But what kind of girl would willingly have sex with someone so dark and disturbed and... gothic? It hit him like a ton of bricks. Bethany. He picked up his cellphone and with shaking hands, called her.

"Sam?" she said, sounding breathless and excited. "You got my message then?"

"Um. Hi Bethany. Yeah. Well, no. But I'd like to see you. I'm at home, but maybe I can meet you somewhere? I've got something I want to tell you."

"I'll be right over." She disconnected. Sam frowned at the phone. How did she know where he lived? He tried to call back, but her phone went straight to voicemail. He shrugged, and took himself off to the shower. He smelt like sex and death.

#

Bethany switched off her cellphone, and threw it on her bed. Sam had escaped from the coffin, and wanted to see her! About time. Maybe her offer to help him avoid the grave had finally convinced him she was serious, and... worthy. She danced in a circle pulling off clothes and then stood naked in front of her full length mirror. She examined her body critically. Fabulous breasts. Hair glossy and thick – thankfully she'd washed it last night. Her pubic area was a little unruly though, and she hadn't shaved her legs or armpits for a few days. Damn! She grabbed a robe and launched herself into the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, the body hair situation was in hand, but the steam of the shower had ruined her makeup. Sighing, she covered her face with foundation and then dusted it with talcum powder until it glowed pale and ghostly. She applied new black liquid eyeliner, extending the edges out Egyptian fashion. She pouted as she painted her lips cherry red.

What should she wear? What would Sam like? He'd originally seen her in her fetish gear. Maybe that had been what turned his mind against her. Should I go with schoolgirl sweet, she wondered, examining a red tartan miniskirt. Nah, still a bit slutty. Some guys didn't like their women showing off the goods to others. Best to wear something conservative – at least on the outside. Once her clothes were off, however... Well, she was sure he'd be the same as any other guy.

Smiling, she pulled on a black mesh teddy and added lace-top stay up stockings with a black seam up the back. Over this she pulled her vintage red WWII man-eater suit. It hugged her hourglass figure perfectly, without showing much skin. Black stiletto heels came next. She rolled her hair 1940s style and held it in place with enamel hairclips in the shape of roses. She added ruby earrings and then her watch. Her watch – ouch! It was getting late. She shouldn't keep her dark lord waiting. He said he was going to tell her something. She knew what it was. He was finally going to tell her the secret of immortality. A final pout at the mirror and she was on her way.

#

Sam swung the door open at Bethany's first knock. She stood on the doorstep looking every inch a pinup girl. He stepped aside to let her in, and closed the door behind her. Now she was here, he was nervous. How do you ask a girl if she's willing to do the dirty with a supernatural being? Bethany's gaze swept across the room, taking in the mess. She crossed the living room with long confident strides and perched elegantly on the edge of an armchair, crossing her long legs demurely at the ankles. She turned big eyes to him expectantly, her red lips parted slightly.

He swallowed. "You want a drink?" She nodded. He stumbled into the kitchen, and found an empty peanut butter glass. He snatched a beer from the fridge, opened it, and poured it quickly into the glass, creating a foamy mess. When he handed it to her, one of her finely painted eyebrows twitched, but she didn't say anything. She was still looking intently at him, waiting for him to speak.

He crunched over the coffee-table remains and sat down. He looked at his shoes and licked his lips. Finally, he mumbled, "I'm not sure where to start."

Suddenly, Bethany was sitting next to him, beer in one hand, the other hand on his, fingernails long and painted black with blood-red tips. Her porcelain face was tilted up to his. "It's okay," she said. "I know about you. I know what you are and I want to be like you. I can be your partner and we can face the world together. Share your secret with me." She dug her fingernails suddenly into his hand, hard enough to break the skin. Sam yelped and pulled his hand back upsetting the beer she was holding. It slopped all over his shirt.

"Shit!" he yelled, standing up suddenly. "I'll, um... I'll be back in a minute." He pulled off his wet shirt as he walked to the bedroom.

#

Bethany couldn't believe how well it was going. Sam hadn't denied anything. She'd been excited by his apartment. The other time she had been here, it had seemed average and normal, the furniture either battered and second-hand, or inexpensive kitset pieces from a chain store. Now the remains of candles were dotted about, and crystals hung everywhere. There was broken glass strewn about the room, and traces of blood, and lumpy red stuff, which was probably gore. There was a tangy, meaty smell in the air too. Bethany was heartened at this evidence of violence. Maybe one of Sam's victims had struggled. She smiled, imagining, and slowly licked his sweet, sticky blood from her fingertips. Then she shook herself. He'd be back out of the bedroom soon – she had to move quickly. Deftly, she removed her suit, pooling the clothes artfully on the floor. She adjusted the teddy, allowing one strap to fall off a milk-white shoulder, and swept her hair to one side. She curled into a submissive position on the sofa, her neck exposed, and waited, heat rising from her groin and her breathing shallow.

Unexpectedly, the front door opened, and a woman came in, calling out "Sam?" Bethany peeked over the top of the sofa. Shit! It was a petite and perky blond woman, and she looked somehow familiar. Sam came out of the bedroom, still shirtless, his mouth hanging open in surprise. Bethany saw the woman look at him, her eyes widening, then saw her take in Bethany's lack of clothes, her eyes narrowing. Bethany stood up, her mesh teddy hiding nothing, and thrust out one hip, her eyebrows raised in challenge.

"B...but..." the woman stammered.

Sam stepped forward, his face a picture of confusion. "Jenny?" He reached out an arm to her. The woman, her face now a storm cloud of fury shoved him hard in the chest and ran out the door, slamming it behind her. Sam staggered back and lost his footing. His head cracked against a narrow table in the entranceway, and he shrieked. Then he was on his back. The table landed on top of him, spilling unopened mail, keys and loose change everywhere.

Bethany stood frozen. The sudden silence was unnerving. "My Lord?" she said, tentatively. Tottering in her stilettos and now feeling a bit self-conscious in her teddy – not to mention cold – she approached Sam's prone form. She prodded him with a finger. Nothing. She tried feeling for a pulse in his neck, and then laid her head on his chest. There was no heartbeat - he was dead. She let out a shaky sigh. Slowly, she put her clothes back on, then slipped out the front door, taking Sam's keys with her.

#

"So where is she?" Amanda hissed, from underneath her hooded sweatshirt. It was cold waiting here by the cemetery gates, and her hands were thrust deep into her pockets. She jiggled from one foot to the other and chattered her teeth theatrically. "Brrr!"

Lawrence looked at his watch. Quarter to midnight. "We're a little early," he said. "She'll be here." He gestured towards the shovels lying on the ground at their feet. "Maybe we should get started. Keep us warm."

Amanda nodded. "Wish I'd worn gloves," she said, as they bent to pick up the tools. "Okay, so how do we play?"

Before Lawrence could respond to this cryptic question, the sound of a car engine reached their ears and they both looked up, frozen in place. The noise got louder, and headlights swept across the headstones. Lawrence dropped to the ground, pulling Amanda down too, and they scrambled for the bushes. "What's the matter?" Amanda demanded, with a giggle. "Isn't it your friend?"

Lawrence pulled her closer so he could whisper in her ear. Her skin was like ice, but she smelled delicious. He struggled to concentrate. "Shhhh! Bethany drives an SUV. That's a van. Oh, shit!" Realization dawned. "It's bloody Gerald and the Scooby gang!" Amanda started to stand, still giggling, but Lawrence pulled her down again. "No, let's just watch."

The van slowed to a stop, and Gerald got out of the driver's side. He closed the door quietly. Ursula cautiously exited from the passenger side. They slid open the side door, and two dark figures leaped out. AJ, presumably, kitted out in his ninja gear, and Keith, dressed all in black, his face smeared in camo paint. Lawrence almost laughed. Ursula reached into the van and passed them out two shovels. "Another rescue mission?" Amanda whispered, her grin eerily white in the moonlight. Lawrence put his finger to her lips, and shook his head, pointing with his other hand to the van. Amanda playfully bit his finger, and Lawrence thought he might swoon, but then he saw her eyes widen. The gang were now unloading two hefty looking mallets, a battleaxe and a collection of wooden stakes – fence palings by the looks. "You're kidding me!" Amanda exclaimed. Ursula looked up, head tilted to one side, listening. She held up a hand to still the others. Lawrence held his breath and Amanda, picking up on his tension, held hers too. After a moment, Ursula dropped her hand and the group gathered up their tools, and moved deeper into the cemetery. "So, what is this all about, Lawrence?" Amanda said. "Are you going to let me in on the rules yet?" She poked him playfully in the ribs.

"Huh?" Lawrence said, staring at her. "What do you mean?"

"I mean this," Amanda said, gesturing around her. "Midnight at the cemetery... shovels and stakes... I've been assuming it's some sort of role-playing game, right? I mean, you do know those people. Are they, like, on the other team or something? And, what are we supposed to be doing?"

Lawrence was at a loss. "Well..." he said. "It's like I told you. We're going to help my friend dig up her vampire lover who was buried here this afternoon."

Amanda sighed. "Fine," she said. "I can play along. Just so long as this is legit, Lawrence. I'm not going to be part of any vandalism or desecration of real graves, okay?"

Lawrence had been thinking about the unexpected appearance of the Scooby gang and hadn't been listening properly. Now he looked at Amanda in confusion. She was so cute, gazing at him expectantly with big earnest eyes. What had she just said? "Okay," he said, and was pleased when she relaxed into him. "I think we should follow them, instead of waiting for Bethany," he said. They picked up their shovels and crept through the cemetery gates.

It wasn't difficult to spot the gang in the moonlight. Lucky for them, the cemetery was deserted, and not easily seen from the road. Lawrence pulled Amanda down behind another bush and they watched. Gerald and Keith were indeed digging up a grave. Amanda gasped, and told Lawrence that they had better call the police, but Lawrence shushed her, and morbid fascination got the better of her. Lawrence was somewhat pleased the gang was doing all of the hard work. He hadn't been looking forward to a six foot dig, even given that the soil was loose. Gerald and Keith were panting and sweating. Soon they passed their shovels over to Ursula and AJ, who took over with gusto. Lawrence could see that they were struggling now to empty the grave. The first three feet of soil was piled up around the outside of the grave, and for each shovelful the diggers threw out, two shovelfuls would flow back in. Lawrence began giggling, and soon Amanda was too.

The gang finally noticed the problem, and Ursula and AJ laid down their shovels. Ursula stretched out her arms so that Keith and Gerald could help her out of the pit. They stood atop the mound of excavated earth, and hauled. Although Ursula was as light and lean as a bag of bones, the angle was awkward, and as the boys pulled, more of the loose soil beneath their feet rained down onto Ursula and AJ. Finally the pair were out, and there followed a heated argument, conducted in hysterical whispers. Then Gerald and Ursula left. Keith let out a deep sigh and thumped down onto a tombstone.

Lawrence looked at his watch. Shit – ten past two! Where the hell was Bethany? Maybe he should just go, he told himself, looking at the shivering, yawning girl beside him. He'd fulfilled his obligation to Bethany – and she'd failed to turn up. Sam's fate, whatever it was, wasn't his responsibility.

He was just about to suggest they leave, when he saw AJ pick up one of the stakes, flailing it ninja-style around his head. Sam's fate is not your responsibility, Lawrence told himself again. "Shit," he murmured, and felt Amanda give his arm a little squeeze. Lawrence had to face it. He was in love with Amanda. And Bethany was in love with Sam. She wasn't here, for some reason, but Lawrence was. "Just another hour?" he said to Amanda, apologetically.

Gerald and Ursula were back – with buckets and ropes and a ladder. This time the gang cleared the mounds of earth away from one edge of the grave, and they used this as a place to stand to haul up bucket after bucket of earth. It was a quarter to four when Lawrence was woken from a half-doze by Ursula exclaiming that the lid was clear. This was the part Lawrence was dreading. He had no idea what he was going to do. He bent down to Amanda, and told her that he was going to go talk to them, and that she should wait here. She said "no fucking way, I'm coming with you."

"Look," said Lawrence, "There's four of them and two of us. I don't want to risk you getting hurt."

She snorted. "That bunch of geeks? Besides, I thought they were your friends."

Lawrence frowned. "They used to be."

Amanda moved into a kneeling position, cupped her hands around her mouth, lowered her voice, and bellowed. "THIS IS THE POLICE. STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"

The result was electric. Gerald, the only one up top, froze. Ursula and Keith began frantically scrambling for the ladder. AJ vaulted out of the hole and took off into the night. After a moment, Gerald took off after him. Ursula began wailing, "Come back you bastard!" Keith made it almost to the top of the ladder, then slipped, and the ladder fell backwards into the hole. There was silence for a few moments, then the ladder reappeared, and Ursula emerged. She was streaked head to toe in dirt, but her face was set in grim determination as she peered into the darkness. Then she leaned back over the hole to talk to Keith. "There aren't any police. Some asshole is fucking us around. Let's get the bloody coffin open, do this thing and get out of here!" There were mumbled protestations from the hole, and then Ursula said, "So fucking what? We don't need them!" More murmurs. Then Ursula, "No, there's no one here. Just some drunk kids probably passing through, thought they'd give us a fright." She turned away from the hole, picked up a stake and a battleaxe.

Shit, thought Lawrence. Now or never. Still, Amanda's quick thinking had evened the odds. He stepped out from behind the bushes. "Ursula!"

Ursula swung around, swishing the battleaxe through the air, eyes gleaming. Then she saw Lawrence. "Oh, it's you," she said, lowering the blade. "Who's that with you?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Amanda flashed her dazzling smile. "Hi, I'm Amanda. I'm Lawrence's girlfriend."

Ursula's jaw actually dropped. Keith's head popped up over the top of the ladder. "Holy shit, Lawrence!" he said. "Way to go!"

Ursula shot daggers at him. Having worked out that it must have been Amanda who had driven the others away, she ignored Amanda and growled at Lawrence. "What do you want?"

Lawrence pulled up to full height and puffed out his chest. "We're here to stop you."

Ursula laughed, and slowly raised the battleaxe. Amanda rolled her eyes. "Oh, please!" she said, and lightning fast, shot forward, kicked Ursula in the kneecap, and ducked out of the way of the battle axe as it fell from Ursula's hands. Ursula howled, and fell over, clutching her knee. "Sit on her!" Amanda instructed.

"What!" Lawrence, Ursula and Keith said together.

"Sit on her!" Amanda repeated. Lawrence sat. Amanda picked up the axe. "Now," she said menacingly. "Are you ready to tell me what's going on?" Lawrence nodded weakly. He told her.

"This all sounds like bollocks," Amanda said, when he was finished. "But there's only one way to find out. First, you – out of the hole."

Keith scrambled out of the grave, and stood staring at the pale girl, her wispy blond hair flying, pale eyes crazy with adrenalin. "God, Lawrence. She's awesome!" Keith said. Ursula groaned.

"Right," said Amanda. "Tie them together." Lawrence shrugged apologetically at Keith, and asked him to lie on the ground next to Ursula, who had finally stopped struggling under Lawrence's weight. He made them sit back-to-back and lashed them together. He noted that Keith looked rather pleased with the situation, Ursula pissed. Amanda nodded her approval, then picked up a stake and a flashlight. "Okay. I'm going to check it out, you keep an eye on them." She blew Lawrence a kiss, ignored the ladder and jumped nimbly into the grave. "Huh," she said after a moment. "The coffin is sealed with tape!" There were some tearing sounds, then the noise of catches being sprung, then grunting and groaning. Then another "huh." Lawrence took a last look at his captives, and walked over to the grave to peer in. Amanda was shining the flashlight on the contents of the coffin – a pile of strangely bulging clothes.

"It's empty!" he exclaimed, wondering if somehow Sam had been turned to dust. Then there was a loud donging sound, a simultaneous terrible pain in his head, and Lawrence felt himself pitching forward. He landed in the coffin, bursting a pile of water balloons with a loud splat. He groaned and rolled over. Amanda stood over him, her pale hair framing a concerned face. The flashlight beam pointed up into the sky. Gerald stepped into the light, shovel in hand, waved at the pair of them, and then withdrew the ladder, leaving them at the bottom of a six foot hole.

# Chapter Twenty-One

Sam woke up with his head thumping. Shadows flickered on the ceiling above him. "You're back," a husky voice said from somewhere. He twisted his aching head and saw Bethany smiling down at him. She was cradling his head in her lap, stroking his blood matted-hair. He struggled to a sitting position. Slowly he became aware of his surroundings. A Sisters of Mercy song was coming softly from his stereo. He was in his apartment, but everything was different. Black sheets were draped over all the windows, blocking out the day. He was sat up near the door, another black sheet covering his body, red candles burning in a circle around them. Bethany wasn't wearing anything. He noticed her pink nipples were erect, and her pale skin was like gooseflesh.

Suddenly an image from one of the tarot cards popped into his head. The Lovers. What had Candice said? You will have to choose between sacred and profane love? He realized he was still staring at Bethany's breasts, and looked away, guiltily. He handed his sheet to her. "You're cold." She took the sheet without comment, and then he realized that he was now naked. He snatched the sheet back, and climbed unsteadily to his feet. She was frowning now. "Get dressed," he said, stalking into the bedroom. He pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, and grabbed a couple of painkillers from his bedside drawer. He checked his clock. 6:09. Hmm, he wondered, a.m. or p.m.? Judging by the light it was morning. But Saturday or Sunday or what?

Bethany was standing in the living room, wearing a red satin kimono embroidered with gold dragons when he emerged. Her arms were folded, and she was pouting. "I have displeased you," she said sulkily.

Sam shook his head. He walked into the kitchen, stuck his face under the faucet to get a mouthful of water, and swallowed the painkillers. He turned on the lights and blew out the candles, feeling her eyes on him.

"Right," he said finally. "I think we've had some sort of misunderstanding. Let's start again. I invited you over here because I want to ask you for... a favor."

She smiled and pulled her hair to one side, bending her head to show him the lines of her neck.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "And what's all this candle and black sheets business?"

She straightened up, and spoke in a strange voice, reminiscent of cheesy horror movie. "I know what you are. Four times have I seen you die, and four times rise again. You are a creature of the darkness, and I wish to serve you. Feed if you will." She stroked a line down her neck, inviting him.

Sam's brow furrowed. "Creature of the darkness?" He walked over to the window and pulled off the black sheet, then raised the blind. Sunlight streamed in, pouring over him like warm honey. He failed to burst into flames.

"Oh," she said, thumping down into an armchair. There was silence for a minute while she twisted a lock of hair around her index finger. "In that case, can I have a cup of coffee? I've been up all night, setting up the room and waiting for you to arise. I'm exhausted."

Sam made two cups. They sat down watching each other warily and blowing on the hot liquid.

"I thought you were a vampire," she said eventually. "Because I've seen you die four times and come back to life. Plus I've only seen you out at night. And Lawrence and the others thought you were too."

"Oh," Sam said, wondering who the fuck Lawrence was. "What about the candles and the sheets, and the...er..." he gestured at the teddy, stockings and stilettos strewn about the place.

She shrugged. "I thought vampires liked that sort of thing. They do in the books I read. You know – sex, violence. Gothic stuff."

"Oh," he said again, blushing.

"I should have known really. I mean, look at this place. Kitset furniture. Not very gothic is it? And your clothes...well..." she trailed off. Then she looked up at him, past a veil of black hair, her dark eyes wet. Sam thought she was about to cry.

"What is it?"

"It's just that..." she bit her lip. "No one's every turned me down before."

"Oh, you're very beautiful," he said, trying to reassure. "It's just...um... my heart belongs to another." God, that sounded lame. He smiled awkwardly.

"Oh. Blondie I suppose." It wasn't a question. He nodded and shrugged apologetically.

"She's very cute," Bethany conceded, "if you like that kind of thing. Well, I guess I fucked that up for you. Alright, your turn. What's with all the dying?"

So Sam told her. He told her almost everything – all of his deaths, how inconvenient it was to die every day, and finally, how he had met Death. He took a deep breath, preparing to tell her about the deal he'd made, steadying himself to ask for her help, but she interrupted him, leaning forward, her eyes shining. "Wait a fucking minute! You've met Death? THE Death? What's he like? Is he a skeleton, like in the pictures?"

Sam thought again of the tarot cards. "Well, no. He looks like an ordinary guy." She looked disappointed, so he added, "Only he's very pale and gothic. He's tall and thin, and...um... has a great sense of humor. Owns his own business. Very mature." Slight lie there, although the guy was four or five hundred years old. Sam went on. "No dependents..."

"You sound like a personal ad," she said.

"Um," Sam replied.

"So, do you think...Can I meet him?" she asked breathlessly.

Sam nodded dumbly. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe he should keep quiet about the deal he'd made with Death. Bethany seemed like the type of girl who would have sex on a first date – but only if she thought it was her idea. Not the type of girl who would do it as a favor for someone. She might think Sam was manipulating her.

"Cool! That's great." Her eyes were shining with excitement, and suddenly she looked very young. Sam felt guilty, then shook himself. She was a grown woman, as she had proved last night. He felt sick remembering the tableau – Bethany in her underwear, taunting, Jenny in the doorway, upset.

'So what's this favor you wanted from me?" Bethany asked him, businesslike now.

"It doesn't matter," Sam said.

"Go on."

"I... I was just wondering if you could recommend a good lawnmower dealership," he said weakly.

#

"So," said Amanda, inspecting Lawrence's head by flashlight. "Those were your friends, huh? Can't say I'm too impressed."

"Ouch!" Lawrence probed his wound gingerly. A lump like an egg had sprouted on his crown. "Well, they used to be. Keith and AJ are alright, and Gerald was normal before, but the idea of a vampire getting hold of his sister has made him go a bit loopy. Ursula's a bitch, but, you know... we let her hang around 'cause she's a girl."

Amanda grunted. She knew first hand the power a pair of x-chromosomes held over the average lamer nerd – seemly no matter the package they were in. "This vampire stuff – it's truly not a game? You're not just trying it on? 'Cause it really sounds like a crock of shit."

"I swear, Amanda. I mean, I don't know what this guy is, but he's been dead heaps of times and always come back to life. I've seen it myself. He was supposed to be in this coffin, dead, right? But all that's there is clothes and water balloons. So where did he go?"

Amanda grunted again. "Well, maybe he's got a medical condition. You know – like maybe he has mini-comas or something. Or narcolepsy. There has to be a rational explanation." Lawrence made a non-committal noise. "Never mind," Amanda said. "Let's get out of here. Kneel down." Lawrence knelt and Amanda climbed onto his shoulders. Lawrence got unsteadily to his feet, trying not to think of the warmth of her inner thighs pressing against his face. If he thought about that he'd drop her. Amanda scrabbled out of the hole, and Lawrence threw her the flashlight. "Now what?"

"Now I call my brother," Amanda said. "He's a housepainter – he's got heaps of ladders. He's not going to be happy to be called out to a cemetery in the wee hours though. I was rather hoping you'd meet him under better circumstances. Can you close the lid? Might be best to tell him we were out for a walk and you fell in, eh?"

#

As Bethany left Sam's apartment, she barely knew what she was saying or doing. Sam had taken her elbow, steered her to the SUV, and asked her three times of she was okay to drive. Then he had left, shaking his head. Bethany felt dazed. Just a few short hours ago, she had been expecting to give up her humanity, be bitten and turned into a vampire. Now that scenario seemed like such small potatoes. Now she had a date with Death himself. She wondered what he would be like. So much folklore had made him out to be nothing more than a skeleton, clothed in black robes. Sam had told her frustratingly little, shrugging at her questions, and saying merely that Death looked, you know, like some guy. As Bethany fired up the SUV and checked out the rear view mirror prior to pulling out, she was shocked to note the large dark circles under her eyes. That's what sitting up all night cradling a dead guy does for your complexion, she noted. She needed a facial, and a nap. She'd also need to choose an outfit. Shit – it was Sunday. She picked up her phone and scrolled through her address book. Aha...

"Hi Vanessa? Bethany here. Look, I know it's Sunday, but might you be going into the shop today? You're there now? Is the cape still there? Yep, I'm finally going to do it. Well, it'll max out the credit cards, but that's what they're for right? Yup, big date. I'll tell you about it later. Okay. I'll see you in ten, fifteen minutes. Yes, I know – back door. 'kay, bye."

#

When Sam had shown Bethany out of his apartment, she was dopey, but excited, babbling about what she might wear for her meeting with Death. It left Sam feeling uneasy. What if Death in the flesh was a disappointment to Bethany? And, even if by some miracle they did get on, this was only going to be a first date. How long until they hooked up? What was normal? Two weeks? Three? Well, no, not with Bethany. Still... maybe he needed a backup in case things didn't work out. Where could he find another woman? Could he drag Death around to all the singles bars? What about speed dating? Swing dance classes? Dancing with Death – that was a thought. It would make for interesting reality TV.

He needed to get out of the house. He slouched along the streets heading towards town, deep in thought, only surfacing when his foot hit a sign placed out on the street. It was advertising the internet café. Sam took this as a sign (which it was). He entered the café and was directed to a PC by a bored-looking girl studded with piercings. While he waited for the browser to load, he looked around. All of the other clients were male – Asian students emailing home, and nerds like the dickheads who had kidnapped him, playing some sort of graphic-heavy fighting game. They all wore headphones and sweated and snorted as they manipulated virtual swords and lances. Occasionally one of them would cry out triumphantly and the others would groan. Sam shook his head.

As he brought up a search window and typed in "singles, dating, girls" he felt slightly dirty, like he should be wearing a long grubby trenchcoat. The search returned over three million results. Hmmm. He sifted the possibilities, rejecting those where the girls wanted payment, narrowing down by geographical region. He briefly thought about a Russian bride for Death, but what if he paid a fortune to get her here and then she was "unwilling" by Death's criteria. In the end, Sam decided to just place an ad. He realized he had the best chance of finding a willing girl if he put in as much truth as possible – except perhaps for age and occupation.

Jeff D.

Age 25.

Self-employed business owner.

Turn-ons: dark magic, gothic influences, heavy metal, beer.

Turn-offs: rainbows, kittens, flowers.

He signed up for a hotmail account to use for replies, and typed its address into the appropriate field. The only field left was space for a photo. He didn't have a picture of Death to upload, so he found a jpeg of a Grateful Dead album cover and uploaded that instead. That was the best he could do. Besides, he still had hopes that Bethany would put out. He pushed his swivel chair back from the computer and went to the front desk to pay. The pierced girl smirked at him, and he wondered if she could somehow tell what sites he'd visited. On a whim, he asked her if she was single, but she just gave him the finger.

Back on the street, he turned his attention to the problem of Jenny. She'd been pretty pissed when she'd stormed out of his place. He pulled out his cellphone, then put it back in his pocket. It would be easy for Jenny to hang up on him. He had to see her. Further along the street was a florist shop, big buckets of fresh flowers on a rack outside it perfuming the air. Hastily he grabbed a bunch of red roses, then thought better of it. Roses were Bethany's style. He chose a huge bouquet of bright gerberas, freesias and chrysanthemums instead, and entered to pay. Inside, the two shopkeepers were wearing matching lime green polo necked shirts, with purple embroidery reading 'Pick of the Bunch'. While the short red-headed girl wrapped the flowers in wax paper, the tall man rang up the sale, and made chit chat. "Lovely! And who are these for? Would you like a gift card?"

"They're for my girlfriend," Sam mumbled, quickly selecting a small card featuring a seal pup with huge eyes and a speech bubble reading 'I'm so sorry!"

The man raised his eyebrows at Sam. "Oooh, you must have been naughty!" Sam didn't reply. He was looking at the shop-girl.

"Are you seeing anyone?" he asked her.

The girl glared at him. The man gave Sam back his change, saying "Ooh, very naughty!" Sam grabbed the bouquet and left. He hailed a taxi and rode to Jenny's apartment.

Jenny opened the door looking puffy-eyed and miserable. She was wearing a pair of pajamas. There was a Dalmatian puppy on the top and the pants were white with black spots. Her slippers were shaggy bunnies.

"Hi," Sam said. He thrust the bouquet towards her. She snatched the flowers out of his hands and flung them back at him. Then she slammed the door.

"Jenny!" Sam yelled, pounding on the door. "I'm sorry! But I didn't do anything! Bethany – she misunderstood why I wanted to see her – she was only there because I thought she might be willing to sleep with Death!"

Sam suddenly became aware of eyes upon him. He turned to see Jenny's elderly neighbor frozen outside her front door, staring at him. "Hi," he said weakly. She sniffed, hastily unlocked the door and bustled inside.

Jenny's door opened, and Jenny stood there glaring at him. "For goodness sake," she hissed. "Get inside." Sam scurried in, and Jenny swept up the broken flowers. She went into the kitchen and arranged the flowers in a vase. Then she pinned the card up on her notice-board, which was overflowing with pictures of baby animals. Finally she turned to Sam, her eyes red-rimmed. Sam sank onto the sofa. "Nothing happened, Jenny. I swear. When you walked out, I died."

"Figuratively or literally?"

"Both. But mostly literally. I hit my head on the side table."

"Did it hurt?"

"Like hell."

Her face softened. "Good. You hurt me, Sam. What was I supposed to think? You were dead when I left on Saturday morning. I taught my fitness class, and saw my family for lunch, and by the evening I thought you might be alive again, so I come over, walk in and there's some whore standing there practically naked, and you without a shirt. I thought maybe what the two of us had didn't mean as much to you as it did to me. And then you didn't come to apologize or explain all of today..."

"Oh, Jenny," Sam murmured. "I was dead again – and it was...well, weird shit happened." He walked over and hugged her, and she buried her face in his chest. "That woman, Bethany, she's... well...a stalker, I suppose, who's been after me. She's seen me come back to life a couple of times, and so she thought I was a vampire and was trying to seduce me into biting her. She wants to be immortal."

Jenny pulled away, looking at Sam and raising one eyebrow. "If that's true, then she sounds like the perfect girl for your dark friend."

Sam nodded. "I'm going to introduce them tonight. Fingers crossed."

The two of them stared at each other for a long time. Then Jenny sighed and stood up on tiptoes to kiss him. He kissed her in return, hard, feeling he could melt into her. He worked his hand under her pajama top, sliding up her warm smooth skin, finding a nipple and caressing it. He felt Jenny stiffen, gasp, then pull away. "What's wrong?" he said, worried. "I thought we were okay now?"

Jenny shook her head. "I can't Sam. It's too horrible."

Sam sank back onto the sofa. Horrible?

"You died, Sam!" Jenny said. "You died... while you were inside me! Have you got any idea how horrible that is?"

"Oh."

"Even worse, you landed on top of me. It took a few minutes for me to wiggle out. You were a... a dead weight. Not moving, not breathing. It was gross!"

Sam sighed. "So... no sex until I'm cured?"

Jenny nodded. "That's right, Buster."

#

Amanda's brother had sniggered at Lawrence's predicament, but he seemed a nice enough guy. He'd helped Lawrence out of the hole without asking too many questions, then he had dropped the pair of them back at Amanda's apartment. Amanda offered Lawrence the first shower and he gratefully accepted, glad to feel the stinging needles of hot water sluicing away the caked-on dirt and blood. Amanda had then walked into the bathroom to bring him a towel, or so she said, and before Lawrence knew what was happening, her clothes were on the floor, and her slight, ghostly pale body was in the shower with him, her skin beginning to flush red where the hot water hit it.

So, one thing led to another, and, at last spent and exhausted, the pair had slept until the early afternoon, woken only by the alarm on Amanda's cellphone announcing that she had to get up and get ready for work. Lawrence got up too, anxious not to be left at the apartment with the surly and snarky Crystal. In disgust he pulled on his dirt-encrusted clothes. Amanda kissed him – on the lips – and he noted with pleasure that this intimacy still shocked him, despite what had occurred only a few hours ago. Or maybe because of what had occurred a few hours ago. A kiss on the lips showed that she was at least still interested, even though Lawrence had judged his 'performance' to have been sub-par – particularly compared to the performances of the male leads in what little porn he had sneakily seen. Was that a fair measure though? He didn't know. In truth he didn't care. He was a virgin no longer.

Secure in this knowledge, he decided to pop back home to reassure his mother that he was still alive, grab a change of clothes and a pancake breakfast, and then have it out, once and for all, with his former friends.

#

The thick black velvet cape sat, wrapped lovingly in acid free tissue paper, on the passenger seat of the SUV as Bethany drove it carefully to its new home. She parked in the garage, gathered up the precious parcel, and walked past her dad's van, into the house. She noticed that the van was parked haphazardly – obviously her brother had been out last night too. She snuck into her parents' room and hung the cape in their closet, so that its weight would ease the folds. Then she drew a bath in their ensuite, and poured in a lavish amount of bubble bath. Finally, she rummaged through the drawers of their vanity unit, trying not to think of the purpose of some of the creams and medicines her parents had stored there, and happily discovered one of her mother's facial packs. She mixed the powder with water in the soapdish, until it formed a dense green paste, which she then smeared thickly over her face. She stripped and sank into the soothing water.

The bubbles had just about vanished and the water was tepid when she jerked awake forty minutes later. Shit – what was she thinking, dozing off in the tub? How ironic would it be to drown on the very day she was due to meet Death? Actually, not that ironic, she realized. That's how it went, presumably, although most people wouldn't have made a conscious choice to see him. What had woken her? Noises from the living room. Voices raised in anger. Groaning, she climbed from the chilly water, patted herself quickly down, and grabbed her dad's shabby old robe which was hanging from a hook on the back of the door. What the fuck was Gerald up to now?

#

On seeing Lawrence at the door, Gerald had held up placating hands. Lawrence was putting on a good show of righteous indignation, and, encouraged by Gerald's seeming contrition, pushed him through to the living room, shoved him down onto the sofa, and loomed over him. Lawrence had never used his bulk to intimidate anyone before and it felt good. He yelled at Gerald, telling him that he was fed up with the group and their stupid games – playing at being crusaders and fantasizing about vampires. They could have killed him last night, whacking him on the head with a shovel, and leaving him for dead. What had happened to friendship?

At this point, Ursula appeared from the direction of the kitchen, and her nasal whine was like nails down a blackboard. "You were the one who betrayed the friendship," she said, "ratting us out to Bethany. And you were perfectly willing to believe in vampires too. Besides, you saw that coffin – it was empty. Explain that!"

"Hey, yeah," Gerald said. "What were you doing at the cemetery anyway, if you suddenly think all this is just our made-up fantasy?"

Lawrence stepped back from Gerald, allowing him to sit up. "Bethany asked me to meet her there. She was pretty desperate about it, but then she didn't turn up."

"I haven't seen her since yesterday morning," Gerald said, frowning.

"And that coffin was empty..." Ursula added.

Suddenly there was a sharp cracking sound from the hallway, a wail of agony, and then a creature staggered into the room. It was covered in a shabby brown robe, its face was mottled green and it lurched. It also had thick black hair and an hour-glass figure. "Mmm-ummph!" it said. Lawrence backed away, Gerald gasped, and Ursula screamed, snatching up and brandishing a lamp.

"What the fuck is all this yelling about?" the creature demanded, its face cracking and flaking off as it spoke.

"Bethany?" Lawrence said, cautiously.

"What?" she snapped. She reached down to clasp her left big toe, which was bleeding from the nail. Her robe fell slightly open, revealing firm white flesh. Yup, it was Bethany. "I stubbed my fucking toe," she said. "What are you doing with that lamp?"

Ursula let out a relieved sigh and put down the lamp. "Fuck, we thought you were a zombie!"

Wordlessly, Lawrence pointed at a mirror on the wall. Bethany looked at herself. "Oh," she said. "Back in a minute. Then we'll talk."

She was back in ten minutes, during which time Lawrence, Gerald and Ursula sat in sulky silence. Her face freshly scrubbed and her own kimono now in place, Bethany sat on the sofa, her legs tucked up under her. "Right. Everyone's way too jumpy. What's going on?"

Lawrence, Gerald and Ursula all spoke at once. "Where were you last night?" Lawrence demanded. "I waited for ages, and then Gerald and the posse turned up and began their Burke and Hare impression!"

At the same time, Gerald said, "Why did you plan to meet Lawrence at the cemetery?"

And Ursula said, "So why was the coffin empty? Where've you stashed the vampire, huh?"

Bethany picked up on Ursula's voice. She turned to the girl, her lip curled in a sneer. "Vampire? You watch too much TV. Who do you think you are, Buffy? There's no such thing as vampires." Then she turned to Gerald. "It is none of your business who I arrange to meet, where and when. If I ever catch you meddling in my business again, I will make you sorry you were ever born, Gerry."

Finally she looked at Lawrence. "As for you, I can only say I'm sorry I stood you up – but the most wonderful thing has happened. Come on and I'll tell you about it." She stood and motioned with her head for Lawrence to follow her. She led him through to her bedroom, and he sat on the bed as she told him the latest news. Her eyes were shining and her face, devoid of makeup, looked very young. Suddenly Lawrence was scared for her.

"Jeez, Bethany. This is pretty serious, you know? When I thought it was a vampire you were into, that was bad enough. But at least vampires have their weaknesses – stakes and sunlight, right? You can defeat them, if you have to. But this is Death we're talking about!"

Bethany flushed. "Isn't it awesome! Help me choose something to wear."

#

Once Jenny had heard the plan to introduce Bethany to Death, she insisted that Sam borrow her car to go and collect Bethany. "Don't let her out of your sight until they're together, okay?"

Sam had agreed, and when he rang Bethany, she was happy enough with the idea. She didn't want to be stuck in town with her parents' car anyway. The Shakespeare Inn opened at five. Lawrence didn't know if Death would be there, but to maximize the chances of finding him, Sam planned on getting Bethany there on the dot. He paced around Jenny's small living room, until 4:15, when she shoved him out the door. He was at Bethany's parents' place by half past – earlier than expected.

Bethany met him at the door flustered, makeup half-done, hair in curlers. She led him into the kitchen, "Help your self to a drink or a snack, and then wait in the living room. Won't be long," she yelled over her shoulder, already hustling out the door.

The fridge was jam-packed with soda. Sam was still ravenous, so he rummaged around until he found a pack of pepperoni and some processed cheese slices. There was an unopened carton of tomato juice in the pantry, so he opened that and poured a glass, adding salt.

The living room was stuffy and close. It smelt like teenage boy, and dog, and cheesy snacks. A large screen TV and sound system dominated the room, with all sofas turned towards the set. Sam was surprised at Bethany's living arrangements. She didn't seem the type to be still at home. How old was she really? Eighteen? Nineteen? What was he doing setting a kid up with Death?

He shook his head. No – Bethany knew what she was doing all right. She'd made her decision. Sam wondered how long it would take her to get ready. Judging by the way she had meticulously arranged his apartment only the night before, she was a perfectionist. Sam sighed, and picked up a remote control from the coffee table. It was a bewildering collection of buttons, but he figured the big red one must be the power. He aimed at the TV and pressed it.

The TV blared into life, to a scene of people running and screaming as a flying saucer chased them down with laser beams. Sam didn't recognize the movie. He ate the pepperoni and cheese, and sipped at the too warm tomato juice. Maybe he should go get ice.

An elderly dachshund waddled into the room and began sniffing around Sam's ankles. Sam suspected the dog had detected the presence of the pepperoni. He reached down to scratch behind its ears. It rolled onto its back, exposing a portly belly, just as a teenage girl, all elbows and knees, slouched into the room. Sam said "Hello there," and started to get to his feet, when the girl looked up at him sharply, shrieked, and fainted, her head cracking against the edge of the coffee table. Sam sprang towards her, but at the same time, the fat dog, observing that the pepperoni was now unattended, made his move.

Sam tripped over the dog, and went sprawling across the girl, sweeping both glass and plate off the table , the tomato juice splattering over her and streaking up the wall. The dog began to yap excitedly. Sam was pulling himself to his feet when a boy entered the scene

head cloaked in a sweatshirt. "That's my DVD, Bethany," he said petulantly. Then the boy peered out from under the hood, and his jaw fell open at the sight of Sam. Something about the boy was familiar.

Sam turned his attention back to the girl, who was beginning to rouse. She groaned. "She's..." Sam began, but suddenly the boy was all over him, pummeling his back and shoulders with a rain of ineffectual blows. The dog, meanwhile, having eaten all the fallen food, danced in ecstatic little circles, smooshing the tomato juice into the carpet and yelping.

At this point, Bethany entered, sweeping into the room like an avenging angel. She was dressed in a thick black velvet cape, her hair teased into a wild mane, tiny ruby crucifixes dangling from her ears. Her lipstick was black, her eyes heavy with kohl. "What the fuck?" she said, then taking in the scene, fell to her knees. "What have you done?" she cried, pushing Sam away from the girl on the floor. The boy was now sitting back on his haunches, tears of frustration in his eyes.

The dachshund was having the time of his life, and leaped up at Bethany, yelping. "Go away, Doofus," she snapped. Sam wasn't sure if she meant him or the dog. He backed away. She turned the head of the prone girl back and forth, inspecting her neck. The girl groaned again, and her eyes fluttered open. Satisfied, Bethany dropped her head carelessly back on the floor.

"Hey, watch it," the boy said. The skinny girl sat upright, and the boy crawled to her, and wrapped his arms around her. Suddenly, Sam knew where he'd seen the boy before. Of course.

Bethany looked apologetically at Sam. "I'm sorry – I thought you'd bitten her. That maybe you were a vampire after all. All this blood..."

Sam smiled tightly. "It's tomato juice. But... you know these kids?"

The kids in question were sitting on the floor, holding each other and rocking back and forth as they stared at Sam.

Bethany sighed. "The boy is my brother. The girl is his friend."

"Well," Sam said, staring levelly at the teenagers. "They're also kidnappers. I've a good mind to call the police. They tortured me, or at least, they tried to – and I think they may actually have killed me!" He looked expectantly at Bethany, waiting for her reaction to this shocking news. It was not all he had hoped.

Bethany puffed up her cheeks and blew out. She looked embarrassed. "Yeah," she said. "They weren't meant to go that far."

"You knew about it!"

Bethany sank onto the settee. The stout dog scrabbled at her legs trying to climb up. "Sorry," she said.

The skinny girl glared at Sam as she rubbed her head, as if blaming him for her injury. "Your coffin was empty!" she said, accusingly. Sam didn't know how to begin to respond to that. What was wrong with these people?

"Oh, get a grip!" Bethany snapped at her. "He's not a vampire, he's an ordinary guy, and you're lucky he's not going to call the cops." She turned to Sam. "You're not going to call them are you? My parents will kill me if Gerald gets arrested." She bit her thumbnail.

Sam sighed, regarding the teenagers. The boy was whispering something to the girl, and she looked up at him in wonder, face aglow. He helped her to her feet, and they left the room, she leaning her frail body against his. They didn't look back.

"I've spoiled it, haven't I?" Bethany said miserably. "Now you're not going to introduce me to Death." She bit her lip, transferring black lipstick to her teeth.

Sam regarded her. "Are you kidding?" he said. "You had me kidnapped, tortured, killed and dumped! You owe me, and I'd say it's definitely payback time. Come on, you've got a date." He grabbed her hand and hauled her to her feet. They left the dachshund excitedly licking tomato juice from the wall.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

Bethany stood outside the mock-Tudor Shakespeare Inn, with its fake historical cheer, waiting for Sam to emerge. The atmosphere was definitely not what she had been expecting. She had thought Death would hang out somewhere darker and more exclusive. She was anxious, and, standing in daylight on a busy road, beginning to feel out of place. Pedestrians passing by stared at her milky pallor and dark clothes. She hugged her cape tightly around herself.

Sam came out. "He's there. Come in and I'll introduce you." Bethany licked her lips and entered the edifice. The patrons turned to stare at her. Sam led her over to a booth at the back. A tall, thin guy got to his feet. His hair was lanky, and cut in the shape of a bowl. He wiped his hands nervously on his jeans before extending one to Bethany. She felt her smile falter.

"Hi, I'm Jeff," the guy said.

"Jeff?" she replied, looking first at him, then at Sam. "Jeff? Is this a joke?"

The guy looked helplessly at Sam, his hand still held out expectantly. Sam glared at Bethany. Belatedly, Beth grasped the proffered hand. At once the warmth was sucked from her hand, and a bolt of energy shot through her core. She stared in wonder at the skinny guy. What power!

"Um," said Sam. "This is Bethany."

"Beth," Bethany said. "Shall we sit down?" They sat.

"You look very sexy," Jeff blurted suddenly and awkwardly. Sam winced.

"Thank you. You're...um..." said Bethany. She didn't know what to say. 'Disappointingly weedy,' were the only words that adequately expressed her feelings, but she couldn't say that.

Sam stood up. "I'll leave you two kids now," he said. Then he leaned across to Jeff and muttered in his ear. Jeff's eyes grew wide. "Really?" he said. "Are you sure? I thought..." Sam just nodded, and with a wave, he left.

Jeff and Beth looked at each other. "Well," they both said at last. Then Beth laughed, breaking the tension. "So, what did Sam say?"

Jeff shook his head. "He said I should show you something – that you'd be impressed. I dunno..."

"Go, on," Bethany said, trying to give him an encouraging smile.

Jeff shrugged. "He said I should show you this," he said, and clicked his fingers. The room changed, and Beth gasped as her senses flooded. Abruptly she became aware of every other person in the room. They were like cattle. She could smell them, and hear them breathing and eating. All of the colors were as vivid as fluorescent paint. Blue numbers glowed above everyone's heads.

She turned to Jeff, mouth open to exclaim, and her breath caught. Jeff – or rather, Death, as she now saw him, was dressed entirely in black, his face pale, eyes rimmed charcoal, lips black as ebony. His lank hair had become glossy and thick. He looked like a God. Bethany was aware that her underwear was suddenly warm and damp. This was more like it. "Jesus!" she said.

Death smiled sheepishly. "No... But I have met him. He's a nice guy, if a bit holier than thou."

#

Sam paced Jenny's apartment picking up ornaments and putting them back in the wrong places. Jenny was trying to choreograph a new aerobics routine, and the same piece of music had been playing over and over as she bounced around counting sets of eight, breasts jiggling in a pleasing fashion. Sam had tried to initiate some action along that line, but Jenny wasn't having a bar of it. Not that Sam had really felt up to sex himself, but it might have been a distraction. The repetitive music was making the night seem endless. Sam kept looking at the clock, willing the hands to move. He had scanned the yellow pages three times, circling ads for different lawnmower companies, and even phoning a few to see if their answering machines would tell him what time they opened in the morning. Every so often Jenny would take a break for water, and Sam would begin to rant. "It's not as if it's a certainty. I mean, she might not fancy him. And even if she does, there's no guarantee they'll do it tonight."

Every time he'd said this, Jenny had rolled her eyes and replied, "What? The girl I caught in your apartment wearing a crotch-less fishnet teddy? You're thinking she's saving herself for marriage, are you?" Then she'd smiled sweetly and gone back to her bouncing.

Sam paced for a bit longer, then with a sigh, sank down onto the sofa to watch Jenny. She was doing jumps, getting increasingly higher, stretching her legs out in front of her and reaching to touch her toes, cheerleader style. Man, she was fit. "How high can you go?" Sam teased her.

"I can touch the ceiling," Jenny panted. "No joke. Watch this!" Jenny bounced a few times, then sank low to the ground and sprang up, shooting out her legs and reaching upward towards the ceiling. The shoe on her right foot sailed off, and struck Sam squarely on the chin. His head snapped back smartly, and there was a crack as his neck broke.

"Ta dah!" said Jenny, landing in the splits position, arms outstretched like an Olympic gymnast. "Oh. Shit."

#

"So, you like... kill everyone?" Bethany was on her third vodka and cranberry. Death was still on his first beer.

"Well," said Death. "It's more like I'm involved in their deaths. I read their clocks, and when the time is right, I give them a nudge. It's more like I'm making sure that everything runs according to plan. Making sure the numbers tally..."

"So you're like some sort of cosmic accountant of the soul?"

"Oh, well, I wouldn't..."

"'cause that's cool. My mother will be happy if I tell her I'm dating an accountant."

Death's mouth fell open in surprise. "We're...dating?" he squeaked, a blush of crimson coloring his pale face.

Bethany smiled. "Yeah, why not?"

At this, Death swallowed hard. "That's... that's great. I've never... I mean, no one's ever..." He trailed off, embarrassed.

"You're four hundred years old, and you've never had a girlfriend?"

Death shrugged, and tried to explain. "I don't meet many young single women, and the ones I do meet are usually dying. They're not up for much. I've had offers from a few old birds – you know one last stand before the end, but..." he shuddered. "I was twenty-two when I... got the job... and I still feel twenty-two, you know?"

"Should we get out of here, then?" Bethany suggested. "Maybe go to your place?"

"Just like that?" Death said, slightly alarmed. Bethany nodded her encouragement and they stood up. Death awkwardly put one arm around her shoulders, and snapped his fingers. The cheery mock-Tudor interior of the Shakespeare Inn swam out of focus and disappeared.

Bethany found herself standing in front of a roaring fire inside a cavernous room. "Just like that," she murmured, turning in a slow circle to take in the surroundings. The walls were hewn stone and from the center of the ceiling a wrought iron chandelier hung. It held thirteen blood-red candles. The firelight lit up a pair of black leather sofas and an ebony coffee table laden with cut-glass decanter and goblets. It was divine – better than she could ever have imagined. Death poured her out a port and took one for himself. Bethany groaned. She kicked off her shoes and let her toes sink into the thick red shag-pile rug at her feet as she took a slug of port.

"Do you like it?" Death asked. "It sort of came with the job."

"It's almost perfect. All it needs is some music..." Death smiled, nodded, snapped his fingers, and at once music filled the air. There was no hint as to where the music was coming from. It was pretty horrible though. Bethany wrinkled her nose.

"You don't like Wagner? What would you prefer?"

Bethany thought for a moment, then grinned. "Blue Oyster Cult. Don't Fear the Reaper."

Death rolled his eyes, sighed, and snapped his fingers again. The familiar opening chords of the song surrounded Bethany, the bass tingling through her skin into her core. "Is that more like it?" Death asked her.

In answer, Bethany peeled off her clothes and threw them onto the nearest sofa, then flung herself onto the rug. Against the crimson carpet, Bethany's skin shone milk-white. Death let out a little whimper and bit his lip. "Are you sure? You wouldn't rather... talk? Or perhaps a game of Scrabble?"

Bethany arched one perfect eyebrow. Shaking, he began to undress. Bethany was pleased to see that Death's body was wiry with nicely defined muscles. His skin was smooth and unblemished. Bethany pictured the tattoos she would have him get. A dragon perhaps, curling around the left buttock. Growling, she grabbed at him and pulled him down onto her.

Jesus he was cold! It was like snuggling up to some carved ice statue made flesh. But then, as he began to touch her, she felt new sensations. Something indefinable – an energy maybe – was moving inside her body, straining to be close to him. She cried out.

#

"Sam?" Jenny edged over to Sam, her one unshod foot causing her to limp. Seeing the impossible angle between his head and body she deduced at once that the problem was a broken neck. Just in case, she gingerly took one of his hands in hers and felt for a pulse. There was none, which was good. If he was alive he would likely be in tremendous pain – unless he was paralyzed, not a cheery thought either, – and she would have to get him to a hospital and answer some difficult questions. No one would believe that an errant shoe could cause this much trauma. A dead Sam she could cope with – it was just a matter of waiting. How long would his recovery take? It would be a question of bone re-knitting, nerves re-connecting, maybe some brain-cells being replaced. Maybe five or six hours? He'd had a big lunch, with lots of meat, as was usual these days – she'd change that once the curse was lifted – so there was plenty of raw material for his body to work with.

Something was niggling at the back of Jenny's mind. She re-ran her recent thoughts. Once the curse was lifted... Once the curse was lifted...

Oh shit! Once the curse was lifted, Sam would no longer be immortal. He would no longer have to die every day and come back from the dead – great. But what if the curse was lifted while he was already dead? Would that mean he would never come back to her?

Jenny knew Bethany's type, or at least she thought she did. That type was quick to the bedroom – getting her hooks into a man by creating a sort of sexual dependency. Jenny figured that it was a matter of hours, – or maybe even minutes, please God, no – before Bethany had sex with Death and completed the deal.

A tiny voice in the back of Jenny's mind admonished her for being so judgmental – after all, it told her, you would have slept with Death yourself to save Sam. And you were also pretty quick into the sack with Sam, Missy. Yes, she told the tiny voice. But that's different. I'm in love!

Okay, there, she'd admitted it. She was in love, and the object of her affection was seated on the sofa, head angled three hundred degrees to his body, slowly cooling. Ick. First things first, she told herself. She put her wayward shoe back on, then pulled a towel out of the cupboard and rolled it into a long cylinder. Grimacing, she placed a hand on each temple and righted his head as best she could, humming to tune out the grinding sound of his vertebrae rubbing together. She wound the towel around his neck to make a brace, and fastened it in place with her spring-loaded hairgrip. She pulled his legs to drag him to the floor, and lined him up as neatly as she could. Hopefully, his body would heal faster if aligned properly. She wrapped him in comforters, figuring warmth would help too, and then she snatched up her keys and was out the door, heading for the Shakespeare Inn.

It was after 8:30, and Jenny couldn't find a parking spot anywhere near the pub – not even a parallel park, which she would have taken for once – so after circling the block four times, she ducked into a driveway and drove along the wide sidewalk, parking just outside the Shakespeare Inn. She left the car unlocked, and dashed into the pub. It had been an interesting night for the clientele of the pub, what with the unlikely patronage of the raven-haired goth girl in her malevolent finery, and now this pert gym bunny in sweat pants, sneakers and sports bra, who came panting into their midst, blonde hair flying. It became even more interesting when the latter let it be known she was looking for the former. Most of the males in the place – which was, in fact, most of the people in the place – immediately made up their own private fantasies to make use of this information. The middle-aged waitress was more helpful.

"Well, shoot, Honey," she said. "Lady you described was here earlier. She was sitting with this tall, skinny guy. A regular." She looked over at a corner booth, empty apart from a pile of used glasses and a beer bottle, and rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "Now that's funny. I didn't see them leave, but they're not there now. It's like they just vanished." She shrugged. "Sorry, Hon."

Jenny thanked the woman and turned away. A smartass at the bar told her he'd be happy to keep her company, but she managed to ignore him, and left the pub. It was a relief to see her car still on the sidewalk, although she attracted a few filthy looks from pedestrians when she climbed in. She moved the car back onto the road, but pulled over as soon as she could. What was she going to do? She wondered if she could somehow summon Death. She shut her eyes and concentrated. Nothing happened. She cleared her throat and spoke out loud. "Hello? I want to talk to Death. Please, if you're listening, it's about Sam. Sam Shore. I need to talk to you. Death?"

Nothing happened. Maybe he was... busy. Despairing, she drove slowly back home. She couldn't believe that her future happiness might depend on Bethany keeping her pants on. Fat chance. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she wiped them away in frustration. It began to rain at the same time, and the wipers squealed as they dragged across the windshield. Everything back at the apartment was the same, Sam still lying immobile on the floor. Jenny tried sitting next to him, but that was too painful. She flicked through the TV stations, but nothing could distract her. How long should she wait to see if Sam recovered? She would need to call the authorities eventually. And then they would ask why she had delayed calling them. And why she had moved the body. Suddenly it occurred to her - call Bethany. She didn't know Bethany's last name, but maybe Sam had her in his phone. Wincing, she removed the comforters and reached into the pocket of Sam's jeans for his phone. His hand fell against her and she recoiled from its coldness. She was used to death at work, but in her own home, with someone she loved...

She scrolled through the options on the phone, looking at incoming and outgoing numbers. Most had names attached, but there was one un-named number that had been incoming a lot, and outgoing only a couple of times. She tried it. Relief surged through her when she heard Bethany answer and identify herself, but the relief was short-lived. The voice was recorded. Jenny left a message, urging Bethany to phone before she did anything with her date. There was nothing else to do but wait. Jenny turned her attention to the housework. Might as well have it neat and tidy for the police when they came, she figured. She did the dishes and folded her clean clothes. She wandered from room to room, straightening and tidying. She saw the yellow pages lying on the coffee table, where Sam had left it. Sighing, she picked up the heavy book, which fell open at a page that had been creased to mark the place. She froze. Lawn-mowers...repairs and servicing. Lawn-mowers...retail.

Of course! Jenny sank to her knees and wept with relief.

#

As Bethany cried out, Death moved away, alarmed that he had hurt her. "What is it?" he asked, concerned, and she explained about the strange feeling of something moving inside her, pressing itself toward him. Death laughed. "Oh, that! That's your soul."

"My soul?"

"Yeah – it's what I do, remember? I take souls. Yours is trying to come to me, but you've still got a life force, preventing it from leaving your body.

"Oh," said Bethany. "Huh. Well, carry on then." Now that she knew what was going on, she could enjoy it. As he kissed her deeply, Bethany's soul slid up into her mouth. As he caressed her breast her soul leaped into her chest. When he kissed her inner thigh, her soul raced down to meet him. It felt wonderful – like being stroked from the inside. They held each other, whispering and giggling, caressing and exploring for a long time.

And when she felt she could bear it no longer, finally Death entered her and her soul was there, wrapped tightly around his penis, moving inside her as he moved. It was exquisite. And then Death, with a few final thrusts, spasmed and came. And Bethany's soul...

Well, Bethany's soul had an orgasm.

They lay entwined on the rug for some time, Bethany enjoying the contrast between the fire's heat on her buttocks and Death's cool skin against her belly.

"So..." Bethany said finally, tracing a fingernail in spirals around his chest. "How does the reaping thing work then? How can you be taking people's souls all over the world when you're here with me?"

Death cleared his throat. "Well, I sort of pop in and out all the time. I can be in lots of places at once."

"So...are you reaping someone now?"

"Well, yes."

"And now?"

Death nodded.

"Who are you reaping right now?"

"Well, when you said the 'n' of the word 'now' it was an old lady in India."

"What about.........now!?"

Death looked embarrassed. "Uh, that was another old lady in India."

"Now?"

"Old lady. In China. There's a lot of old ladies you know."

"Will you tell me if you do anyone interesting?"

"Actually, at about the time you said the word 'anyone' I was making sure a drug dealer got shot in Colombia."

"Cool," Bethany said. Death planted a kiss on her forehead, and her soul zipped up there.

"Again?" he asked her.

"Yes please!" Bethany and her soul said together.

Afterwards, Bethany looked at Death and frowned. "Are you popping out to reap people when we're screwing?"

Death shook his head. "No way. This is far too important to me. I've been one hundred percent here with you."

"So what happens to people's clocks?"

"They go into negative time. I'm catching them up right now."

"Oh," Bethany said. "Then really, while we're having sex all those people are getting a free half hour of life. I'm doing a public service here." Death nodded. "Good," Bethany said, and launched herself at him. "I'm feeling charitable."

Later, when Bethany and her soul were completely spent, Bethany said to Death, "So, tell me about celebrities."

"Huh?"

"Well, you've offed everyone for the last four hundred years, right? So you must have done heaps of famous people."

"Well, yes," Death said.

"Jim Morrison, Jimmy Hendrix, Janis Joplin?"

"Uh-huh."

"Marilyn Monroe? James Dean? President Kennedy?"

"Yup, I was there on the grassy knoll." He unconvincingly mimed shooting a shotgun.

"Elvis?"

Death adjusted his position and sighed. "Listen, Beth, being Death... it's just a job, you know. I didn't actually meet any of these people. I just...reaped them."

Bethany poked him playfully in the side. "You didn't answer me! Go on... Elvis...?"

Death looked ashamed. "It's just that, I was a fan, you know... and sometimes, there are...clerical errors..."

"Oooo, I knew it!" Bethany squealed. "You big cheater! So the clocks are not the final word then? You do have some discretion?"

Death blinked at her. "Well, yes. I mean – like what I did with Sam's clock. By the way, he's dead at the moment, but when he's recovered, and you see him next, tell him that the deal is done, and I'll fix him whenever he likes. I don't even need the lawnmower – I'm more than satisfied!"

Beth's eyes narrowed and she pulled away from him. "What do you mean, deal?"

"I thought you knew. I thought Sam told you about our deal."

"No. Tell me."

Death bit his lip. Bethany kicked him. "Tell me!"

"I made a bet about how long Sam could stand to die every day but be immortal. Sam wanted me to call off the bet. I said I would on one condition..." Death looked at Bethany and swallowed. She raised one eyebrow, and Death looked away, ashamed. "That he got me laid."

Bethany laughed. "Oh! Is that all? Come here!" Bethany's soul perked up. Alright!

# Epilogue

The marquee was white – which was the only color available to rent – but black and red ribbons had been twisted around the supporting poles, and the interior was decorated with hundreds of dark crimson roses. The entertainer had just wound up his set. He was the best Elvis impersonator Jenny had ever heard, and the funny thing was that he sang mostly original material, but in the style of the long dead rocker.

The ceremony was due to start soon, and Sam, in his capacity as best man, was trying to get everyone into their correct places. Sam looked so handsome in his morning suit. He caught her eye, smiled, and gave her the "okay" sign, raising his eyebrows to make it a question. She smiled and nodded, and patted her swollen belly. She hadn't had any morning sickness for a couple of months now, but Sam still worried about her. She didn't want to upset him, but she was worried too. Death had let it slip to her that their baby, conceived while Sam was immortal, might be immortal too. Well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it – why bother upsetting him? Sam was so happy what with her, and the baby, and being reconciled with his father. His stepmother Candice was pregnant too – her third baby – and this time she had abandoned the yogurt and tofu for a steady diet of cheeseburgers. This had delighted Sam no end, even though he was now a vegetarian himself. Jenny supposed she could see the funny side. Of course Sam was also happy with the new career. He'd sold another screenplay, and this one was about to be made into a major motion picture. It was called "What Mortals These Fools Be," and was about a bet between Death and the Devil. Well, d'uh.

Jenny tore her gaze from Sam, and examined again the other guests. It certainly was a motley collection. Almost all of them were connected to Bethany in some way. She knew Amanda and Lawrence of course. She'd just been catching up with them. Lawrence was Bethany's friend – go figure, – and Amanda, his partner, ran a movie-critiquing website. Sam had given Amanda plenty of insight into the casting of his movie, and had also brought her behind-the-scenes. The inside knowledge had boosted the hits on her website, and sent her advertising revenue soaring. Amanda had told her that Lawrence's business was taking off too. He'd invented some sort of computer program which effectively hid porn files, and was making a killing from the teenage boy market. Jenny was embarrassed to hear this, but Amanda seemed proud. Things were going so well, in fact, that she was booting out her roommate, Crystal, and Lawrence was moving in. Amanda had pointed out Crystal to Jenny. She was dressed inappropriately in a short kilt, fishnet stockings and a slashed top. She'd come along as a date for Keith, who was an old friend of Lawrence. Neither of them looked particularly pleased about it.

Jenny examined short, squat little Keith and shook her head in wonder at the events Sam had experienced. This kid, and Lawrence, and Bethany's brother, and the skinny girl –Ursula, that was the name – and one other kid had kidnapped her Sam, and yet Sam had forgiven them. In fact, four of the five of them were here at the wedding. The skinny girl had arrived with a date. Sam's jaw had dropped when he'd seen them walk in, and he had murmured, "Mr. Edwards!" She'd have to ask him later what that meant.

And then there was Bethany's brother, Gerald. According to Sam, he'd gone out with Ursula very briefly just after the curse had been lifted from Sam, before realizing that this was not where his interests lay. His date for this evening had been introduced as Lucas, a bartender with a checkerboard hairdo who was a friend of Bethany. Well, well.

Jenny settled into place where Sam had indicated, as he gave her another smile and a wink. She was in the front row, next to Bethany's parents and couldn't help but eavesdrop on their conversation.

"What kind of a name is D'Eth? Is it French? He doesn't look French. I mean honestly. Beth D'Eth."

"Well, I know, but at least she's settled down. I mean, did you ever think she'd get married?"

"And that's another thing – her not wanting you to give her away. And not letting us pay for anything. And the wedding dress! I can understand not wanting white, but red!"

"I don't mind, really Dear. As she says, we don't own her, so how can we give her away? And she told me that in Ancient Rome, brides wore red to ward off evil spirits."

"Evil spirits! Honestly! Where does she get these ideas?"

They were quiet for a moment, and then Bethany's mother started up again. "And just look at him. I mean, yes, he's fabulously wealthy, but so weedy looking. What does she see in him? You don't think it's just about the money, do you?"

Bethany's father sighed. "No, it's obvious when she looks at him, she's in love. Maybe she sees something in him that we don't. Anyway," he concluded, kissing his wife firmly on the mouth, "you can't choose who you fall in love with."

His point was punctuated by a chord of music. Sam slapped Death on the back, and Death swallowed nervously. The wedding march was beginning.

# About the Author

While a teenager, Yvonne Morrin was briefly a goth, before embracing her inner dweeb. Now an adult, Yvonne is still trying to decide what she wants to be. So far, she has been a nuclear physicist, a meteorologist, a school teacher, a swing dance instructor, a zookeeper and a children's book author. Her kids' books are published under her maiden name of Morrison. This is her first book for adult readers.

Find her at www.yvonnewritesbooks.com

# Publishing Information

First published as an ebook in 2012.

© 2012 by Yvonne Morrin.

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real people, places or events are a matter of coincidence.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

