Chapter 1
She was tall, leggy, blond, with cornflower-blue eyes. The dress, if it was a dress, was rose-colored and
silky. It clung to her body the way it was supposed to, hiding what decency demanded, but leaving very
little to the imagination. Long pale legs were stuffed into pink spike heels, no hose. She stalked across the
carpet, and every man in the room watched her. And she knew it.
She threw back her head and laughed, but no sound came out. Her face brightened, her lips moved,
eyes sparkled, but in absolute silence, like someone had turned the sound off. She leaned one hip against
Harold Gaynor, one hand on his shoulder. He encircled her waist, and the movement raised the already
short dress another inch.
Could she sit down in the dress without flashing the room? Naw.
"This is Cicely," he said. She smiled brilliantly at Bert, that little soundless laugh making her eyes sparkle.
She looked at me and her eyes faltered, the smile slipped. For a second uncertainty filled her eyes.
Gaynor patted her hip. The smile flamed back into place. She nodded graciously to both of us.
"I want you to raise a two-hundred-and-eighty-three-year old corpse."
I just stared at him and wondered if he understood what he was asking.
"Well," Bert said, "that is nearly three hundred years old. Very old to raise as a zombie. Most animators
couldn't do it at all."
"I am aware of that," Gaynor said. "That is why I asked for Ms. Blake. She can do it."
Bert glanced at me. I had never raised anything that old. "Anita?"
"I could do it," I said.
He smiled back at Gaynor, pleased.
"But I won't do it."
Bert turned slowly back to me, smile gone.
Gaynor was still smiling. The bodyguards were immobile. Cicely looked pleasantly at me, eyes blank of
any meaning.
"A million dollars, Ms. Blake," Gaynor said in his soft pleasant voice.
I saw Bert swallow. His hands convulsed on the chair arms. Bert's idea of sex was money. He probably
had the biggest hard-on of his life.
"Do you understand what you're asking, Mr. Gaynor?" I asked.
He nodded. "I will supply the white goat." His voice was still pleasant as he said it, still smiling. Only his
eyes had gone dark; eager, anticipatory.
I stood up. "Come on, Bert, it's time to leave."
She was tall, leggy, blond, with cornflower-blue eyes. The dress, if it was a dress, was rose-colored and
silky. It clung to her body the way it was supposed to, hiding what decency demanded, but leaving very
little to the imagination. Long pale legs were stuffed into pink spike heels, no hose. She stalked across the
carpet, and every man in the room watched her. And she knew it.
She threw back her head and laughed, but no sound came out. Her face brightened, her lips moved,
eyes sparkled, but in absolute silence, like someone had turned the sound off. She leaned one hip against
Harold Gaynor, one hand on his shoulder. He encircled her waist, and the movement raised the already
short dress another inch.
Could she sit down in the dress without flashing the room? Naw.
"This is Cicely," he said. She smiled brilliantly at Bert, that little soundless laugh making her eyes sparkle.
She looked at me and her eyes faltered, the smile slipped. For a second uncertainty filled her eyes.
Gaynor patted her hip. The smile flamed back into place. She nodded graciously to both of us.
"I want you to raise a two-hundred-and-eighty-three-year old corpse."
I just stared at him and wondered if he understood what he was asking.
"Well," Bert said, "that is nearly three hundred years old. Very old to raise as a zombie. Most animators
couldn't do it at all."
"I am aware of that," Gaynor said. "That is why I asked for Ms. Blake. She can do it."
Bert glanced at me. I had never raised anything that old. "Anita?"
"I could do it," I said.
He smiled back at Gaynor, pleased.
"But I won't do it."
Bert turned slowly back to me, smile gone.
Gaynor was still smiling. The bodyguards were immobile. Cicely looked pleasantly at me, eyes blank of
any meaning.
"A million dollars, Ms. Blake," Gaynor said in his soft pleasant voice.
I saw Bert swallow. His hands convulsed on the chair arms. Bert's idea of sex was money. He probably
had the biggest hard-on of his life.
"Do you understand what you're asking, Mr. Gaynor?" I asked.
He nodded. "I will supply the white goat." His voice was still pleasant as he said it, still smiling. Only his
eyes had gone dark; eager, anticipatory.
I stood up. "Come on, Bert, it's time to leave."
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