The Resurrectionist. Sierra Woods
to her question, as I’ve been performing resurrections for only a year or so. Not long enough to come up with a stat sheet. Each resurrection is different, just as each death is different. The state and success of recovery depends on how long the deceased has been gone, and on whether we’ve stored the body or it was buried in a traditional manner. Embalming is not a good thing if you intend to return to a living state. Yeah. Cremation is a bad idea, too. Way bad.
Betsy sat more upright and smiled, the corners of her mouth a little tight and dry. “I’ll bet some makeup will help.”
Yeah, and a spackling trowel to slap it on with. “Give it a go. I hear there are sales on this week.” Looking down at the contract she signed, I added the date. Having been dead and on ice, she wasn’t up on current events. “Do you want to go with us to the ’yard? You don’t have to, but if you’d like to, someone can drive you and follow us to the site.”
“The yard? What’s that?” A frown of confusion made the bullet wound between her eyes pucker. S-o-o not attractive.
“Graveyard.” Where the life-swap rituals are completed, sending killers where they belong. A one-way ticket to the nebula. Looking away, I tried not to focus on her wound, like a deadly zit on her forehead.
Before answering, Betsy put away the compact someone had given her. Most newly resurrected have a difficult transition at first, which is why I don’t keep mirrors around the office. Let ’em get used to the idea of being awake and alive again before they wonder what they look like. Sometimes it ain’t pretty.
“No. I just want to go home, see the kids and take a shower.” Rubbing her hands on her arms, she shivered. You go a year without a shower and see how you feel. I’d recommend a good exfoliant, like steel wool. Maybe I could come up with a gift bag for the newly resurrected. Steel wool and a mild bleach solution. That would be good PR, wouldn’t it? I should write that down.
Betsy looked at her ex-husband across the room and dismissed him as if he meant nothing to her. I suppose that’s the best attitude. He’s the one who put her in the ground, so she obviously meant nothing to him. In my book, turnaround is simply justice, served neat.
She rose from the chair and wobbled a little, then got her land legs again. I don’t know quite what to call it when they’ve been in containment. Grave legs? Jeez. This job just gets freakier all the time. Every day is Halloween around here. We just need some candy; we’ve already got the nuts.
Betsy’s family was weepy and gathered around her, then pulled away. A few wiped their hands on their pants, grateful for, but at the same time repulsed by, her condition. If her body hadn’t been found and put in containment quickly, none of this would have been possible.
Without my death and the death of my child, it wouldn’t have been possible either. The cramp in my chest that I refuse to acknowledge surfaced, but I shoved it back as I always had. This was not the time to renew the grief of my past. This was the time to kick the ass of the guy responsible for putting my client in the grave.
Some newly resurrected have a hard time remembering what happened to them, and that’s probably for the best.
I, however, will never forget.
Three years ago my husband’s lover stuck a butcher knife in my belly and cut my child out of me, leaving me to die in the desert. Fortunately for me, there were forces at work in the universe that took exception to that act of atrocity and rescued me. It’s made me what I am now, and I can never go back to my previous life as a nurse, a wife and almost a mother.
That debt of honor can never be repaid.
Returning from the dead definitely has had some unforeseen consequences. Like the other-siders wanting something in return. Like learning how to raise the dead and performing life-swaps. Simple stuff like that.
Many of my resurrections involve women who, like me, married the wrong man and didn’t live to tell about it. Other life-swap cases I handle include cops killed in the line of duty, and kids murdered by their mothers’ new boyfriend, who just happens to be a pedophile. Fortunately, I was sent back to right the wrongs done to others just like me. It’s a living as well as a mission. There are other resurrectionists out there, but we are a small force trying to bring our abilities to the public without getting ourselves killed. Our country has already had one giant witch hunt. We don’t need another.
It was my turn to stand, and I got up from behind the desk. I’m tall, but I usually wear cowboy boots with heels. Gives me the height to look down on these assholes so they know a woman is the one putting them in the grave for good. I have long black hair I wear straight, past my shoulders, and skin that appears perfectly tanned year-round. Not my choice, but my mixed ethnicity. It’s my eyes, though, which are an odd shade of muddy green with yellow flecks, that give me the advantage over the nut jobs I deal with. Some say it’s like looking into hell when I give them the right stare. Frankly, I don’t believe in hell anymore, so I don’t know what they are talking about.
“How you doin’, Rufus? You ready for all this?” He was a weasel of a man, not much to look at. Dark brown eyes too closely set, a short, wiry frame and the disposition of a rabid coyote. Probably has a dick the size of a baby dill, too. I’ve discovered the meaner a man’s disposition, the smaller his dick. Hmm. Wonder why?
“Fuck you,” he said and spat at me.
“Sorry. I don’t fuck dead guys.” As if.
“You’re gonna pay for what you do. Someone’s going to take you down.” He made the sign of the cross as well as he could in shackles. Kinda tough, though.
The guards on each side of him just laughed, and that makes me smile. As close to a warm fuzzy as I’ll ever get. I’m not warm, and if I’m fuzzy I need to shave my legs.
“Really? Well, it ain’t gonna be you.” I let my eyes wander over his hot pink jumpsuit. I took a cue from that sheriff in Arizona who makes the inmates wear pink underwear and live in tents outside no matter how freakin’ hot it is. Unfortunately, pink is not a good color for most men, unless they’re gay or less than three years old, and Rufus was neither. “Let’s go, boys. We don’t have all night.”
The guards are equipped with a bulletproof, four-wheel-drive van. One drives, one rides with a shotgun trained on the life-swapper, and I mentally prepare for what I’m about to do. My main man, Sam Lopez, is unavailable tonight, and I actually miss his strong, hunky presence at the ’yard. He has secrets I can’t penetrate even if I wanted to, and I suppose he’s entitled to them. I don’t own him, and he isn’t obligated to have share-time with me, but his presence at the graveyard gives me strength I didn’t know I needed until he said he couldn’t be here. Each ritual takes a lot of energy, and I’m usually too wasted to drive safely back from the ’yard. Maybe it’ll get better the more resurrections I perform, but for the time being, I have guards. Men like to drive anyway, so I don’t mind having them cart my ass around once in a while.
* * *
The next morning, I felt as if someone beat the hell out of me when I wasn’t looking. Obviously, I hadn’t had enough meat yesterday. This girl needs loads of protein just to function in a normal manner. Well, my normal anyway. My stomach roars to life the second my eyes open. Dammit. I am so ruled by my appetite.
The life-swap had taken way longer than it should have last night, and as a result I was more ragged out than usual this morning. Having Sam present for the rituals obviously makes a difference, so I’m going to have to make sure he’s not out dancing naked under the full moon for the next one. My energy stores last only so long and must be replenished frequently.
After a shower I put on some jeans and a black T-shirt. The crystal amulet on a chain never leaves my neck (a little gift from the other-siders), so I tucked it inside the shirt. They didn’t give me direction on the crystal, but just said it was a source of power. Maybe it wards off bacteria, too, ’cause I haven’t been sick since I began wearing it. I tugged on scarred black cowboy boots I wouldn’t give up for anything and shoved a pair of sunglasses over my burning eyes. When I’m depleted of nutrients, my