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Marcus pressed his lips together, jaw tight as if holding back a comment.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Far too much scrutiny,” Pierce said. He took my shoulders in a firm grip. “Call Dr. Nikas ASAP if you have trouble at the morgue with Allen Prejean. Ari will get hold of me. Got it?”
“Sure. Okay.” I had the uncomfortable sensation Pierce could see right through me. “What about the FBI agent here in town? Anything to worry about?”
“Rachel will be keeping tabs on the funeral homes. Naomi is undercover at the Zombie Fest, watching for anything noteworthy.” He huffed out a breath of frustration. “Not that we know what we’re looking for.”
I perked up. “I’m going to the Zombie Fest tomorrow. I can be another set of eyes and ears there as well as around town.”
Pierce regarded me for a long moment, giving me time to prep my I’ve-proven-myself-over-and-over speech. But he squeezed my shoulders and let out a weary sigh. “That would be great, Angel. We certainly need the help.”
He meant it, I realized, and a tendril of worry crept through me. He shouldn’t need my help. Not with Tribe security on the ball. But this was a job I could do. I had no trouble—
Without warning, Pierce leaned in close and sniffed again. I twitched in surprise then grabbed his head and licked his damn cheek.
He jerked back and stared at me.
“See how creepy it is on the receiving end?” I snapped. “Maybe a little warning next time? Or, I dunno, privacy?”
Eyes on me, he wiped a hand over his cheek then brought it to his nose. Sniffed. He gave me a frown I couldn’t read then strode to the Escalade without a word.
Weirdest day ever.
Chapter 3
Normal food-hunger jabbed at me as I climbed back into my car, informing me that I needed to get my ass to Alma’s Café before I starved to death. Brain-hunger chimed in as well, and I dug another chunk out of my lunch box to shut that one up for the moment. One of the few drawbacks of V12 was the way it tripled my brain hunger, but I figured that was a small price to pay for the benefits it offered. Besides, I only needed to use it until I finished the semester.
It also didn’t suck that I felt more relieved than upset about the encounter with Pierce and Marcus. Though it irked me to be left out of the loop about the confidential business, I was more than happy for the others to deal with the big crap. New York had been a trial by fire of enormous crap, and I still felt singed by everything that happened. I’d killed people. A lot of them. And my nightmares didn’t care that there’d been no choice, didn’t care that those people would have done far worse to me and my friends.
So yeah, I’d done my time in the trenches. Being eyes and ears—and not much else—was fine with me.
The hideous traffic had eased, and I made it downtown with a minimum of stress. But once there, I slowed and gaped at the sight of an enormous putrid green banner strung over Main Street. Lurid red letters screamed “5th Annual Deep South Zombie Fest” with “-er” at the end, printed to look as if it had been spray painted on.
Fest-er. Because zombies rot and . . . fester. Heh.
The Deep South Zombie Fest was held in a different place each year, but it was Mayor Turnbuckle who deserved props for bringing it to town. He’d worked political magic and southern charm to convince Infamous Vision Studios—the makers of High School Zombie Apocalypse!!—that a return to Tucker Point as sponsors of the Zombie Fest would be great promo for the movie’s opening weekend. With the studio’s money and prestige as incentive, the organizers of the Fest had been more than happy to bring it here.
For a small town whose interests usually ran toward hunting season, NASCAR, and Cochon de Lait, Tucker Point seized onto the zombie mania with fevered passion. Not only did all the hoopla pump tourist money into the community, it also gave the locals yet another reason to let loose and have a good time. Not that they needed one. Hell, this was Louisiana. We partied when the weather changed.
I turned down a side street and into the lot behind Cathy’s Candle Creations. Parking there meant I had to walk an extra block, but considering the earlier traffic I doubted there’d be any open spaces closer to the café.
The giant banner over Main Street turned out to be merely the tip of the festering iceberg. It looked as if the zombie fairy had paid a visit and waved her magic wand to transform downtown Tucker Point into an undead circus. Moans and groans and hungry growls issued through a town PA system usually reserved for holiday music. All the local businesses had jumped onto the rotting bandwagon in an effort to cash in on the weekend of zombie craziness. Roaming vendors peddled makeup kits and latex gore. Sidewalk sale zombie stuff was everywhere. Posters, bumper stickers, T-shirts, you name it. A local youth group was even selling tickets to the Zombie Petting Zoo.
I didn’t want to know.
To add to the total weirdness, Mardi Gras was coming up in four days, on the heels of the Fest weekend, which made for a strange hodgepodge of decorations. Carnival and corpses. Putrid colors of zombie rot mingled with the glitter of gaudy purple, green, and gold. And no one seemed to mind one little bit.
Least of all me. I absolutely loved it. The last lingering worries about Allen or Marcus or the FBI slipped away as I took it all in and headed down the street toward Alma’s Café.
Moe’s Hardware had been in business for over a hundred years and was as much a museum as a store—filled with all sorts of tools made obsolete by technology. Not many people had a need for a two-man saw anymore. Gimme a good chainsaw, any day. But I also knew that if we ever had ourselves a real apocalypse, Moe’s would be my first stop to load up on useful shit that didn’t need gas or electricity.
The current Mr. Moe was the son of the original owner. He was ninety if he was a day, but that hadn’t stopped him from joining in the fun. With a denture-baring grin, he shambled up and down the sidewalk in front of his store, fake blood smeared on his face.
I evaded a leering zombie hug—which, knowing Mr. Moe, would include a zombie ass-grab—but stopped in awe when I reached the next shop, Le Bon Décor. Displayed in the window were a pair of exquisite carnival masks. Zombie carnival masks with sculpted rot and realistic paint. The grinning one had teeth exposed in maggoty flesh, and the mouth of the frowning face dripped blood from rotting lips. Bedraggled feathers and tarnished sequins completed the cool risen-from-the-grave effect.
A deep yearning lust for wearable art filled me.
