Chapter One Lazarus
I hate people. People are evil.
I’m people-shaped, but people will tell you I am not one of them, if they could ever see me clearly.
They’d see gray skin, all stitched and stapled and stitched again.
Eyes that glow an iridescent green, a shade of green caused by magic and chemicals, not nature.
Then there are the teeth. Ain’t no one looking past these sharp, shark-like beasts that used to be normal.
The one fucking thing that was normal about my face, and the fuckers who made me wrecked them, chisled and ground the teeth in this dead man’s head into diamond-hard points.
“Lazarus, we have an appointment with the social worker.” Manny slaps my back as he comes past me in the garage where we work.
Manny is like me. He’s the reason I exist, actually.
Back in the olden days, there was this messed up dude named Frankenstein ( I don’t know if that’s actually his name, or if that’s just what people call him because of that writer chick who fictionalized an account of his mad scientist shenanigans).
He wanted to play God, and he made himself a patchwork human out of dead people.
Not only that, but he did it twice, because his “creation” needed a “mate.”
And you know what? Manny turned out all right.
His bride, Rhea, turned out all right. Oh, not right away; it was messy at first, and they were apart after some major doom and gloom.
He immigrated to America, worked in bicycle repair, then auto repair, and opened his own little garage (which also does car rentals now).
Rhea stayed in Europe, saw the world like an observer, like a guardian angel, and became one of the best photographers around.
They still found their way back to each other. Why?
Soul mates. Made for each other. The crap I would call crap for anyone else but them. For them, I believe it.
After a century and a half, they’re living a nice little suburban life in Pine Ridge, New York. They run the used car lot-slash-auto repair shop (that also does rentals). Rhea has a side gig where she does photography for weddings and babies.
Normal undead patchwork people, productive citizens. Nice people.
Sometimes it makes me crazy that they can be just like me and not like me at all.
“Lazarus? Did you hear me?”
Manny looks worried as he stands next to me, so much bigger than me. I think Dr. F thought he needed a big chassis to run his 50,000 volts through. Me?
I was made by a sick crime boss who wanted a hitman who wouldn’t die on him. One that he could shoot in the face and sew back up when he was done being angry.
Yeah, Dr. F made a man to prove he could conquer death. Mafia boss Vince Pazcuso made me to deliver it.
Guess what? I don’t like following rules like that.
I don’t like following rules from anyone—except maybe Manny and Rhea, and only because I like them.
When I left the California CrossRealms (basically Hell’s waiting room) and came to Pine Ridge, they spotted me living in the cemetery and immediately scooped me up like their long-lost son.
I hate to admit it, but being loved by them is the one thing I like about life. That, and menthols. What? Don’t you dare tell me I can’t smoke. I’m not getting any deader, okay?
So. I hate people, but I like the people-shaped couple that has survived in this hellscape called life for longer than me and still act like this world is worth saving.
They may have “adopted” me, but they deserve a chance to have a real family.
To raise a little kid who hasn’t already seen people get butchered and had his arm chopped off and sewn back on for not participating as instructed.
They deserve some sweet, innocent little bundle to love and protect, not some old wreck without a soul to put back together.
I’m only a year old, but that’s the “sum” of my parts.
I have no idea who I’m made from or how old they were.
Remembering how Pascuzo likes to deal with traitors and narcs, I imagine my bloodline isn’t anything great.
I don’t even have a soul. Somehow... Manny and Rhea have theirs. I can’t feel mine. Can’t find me in all these bits of others.
But aren’t all of them me?
It’s why I like whiskey, too. “When you drink, you don’t have to think.” That’s my motto.
No, Manny and Rhea deserve to raise someone who can love them back. Someone who has time to develop good qualities, not just vices.
“Laz? Lazarus, are you all right?” Manny’s deep voice is getting worried.
I smile and run a greasy hand through my unnaturally silver-white hair. “Social worker visit? Is this more paperwork stuff? Now? The night before Thanksgiving?”
Manny’s serious face cracks into a huge grin,
and it strikes me that he reminds me of that guy from that old television show.
The Cheddars? The Muensters? No, The Munsters!
A big, goofy grin and a deep, comical chuckle come from that massive, scary body that’s all stitched and sewn like mine, more greenish than gray, unlike Rhea, who is so gorgeous with her lily-white white complexion and her ocean of long, dark hair.
Shut up. I’ve got eyes. I notice things, even though I’d never notice them for myself. I’m dead-ish, but my hormones still work—unfortunately.
“This isn’t just paperwork, Lazarus! There’s a woman in Ohio who wants to place her child for adoption.
The baby may have special medical needs as she’s likely to have preterm labor.
The social worker is traveling for the holidays, but she’s agreed to meet with the mother and us near Pittsburgh tomorrow morning, first thing.
It’s kind of urgent, since she could go into labor at any time. ”
My heart—or whatever it is, probably my brain (used, only one owner)- is baffled. “But that kid might die, right?”
“Yes, that could happen. Preemies do sometimes. She’s six months along, the social worker said. That means she’s technically past the ‘age of viability.’ The point where the baby could survive with help. In many cases. Not all.” Manny’s face is suddenly grave.
“But—But Rhea would be devastated if—” You can’t hurt Mom.
Sometimes, I let myself call them Mom and Dad, as long as it’s not out loud.
“I know she would. But she would be devastated if any child died. She would be more devastated if we didn’t even try, especially since we’ve... Well, officially, we haven’t been waiting long, but—”
“I know.” They’ve been waiting for over a century to find each other again.
Over a century, made up of pieces, but never whole without the other.
And now, the two of them fit with a space or two in the middle.
One for me, somehow. One for a kid. And if there were five kids, ten kids, twenty kids that needed parents over the long, long lives they’ll lead, more spots would just keep opening up.
They’re made of science and sorcery, but their magic is the best kind.
Not all dark and demonic like mine.
“Go get ‘em, man. The shop will be closed tomorrow; it’s not like there will be customers.”
“Ah, about that. We hope to be back in time to catch the end of the Thanksgiving dinner at White Pines, but it really depends on what happens during the meeting. You are going to Thanksgiving dinner, aren’t you?”
I groan. “No!”
“Most of the paranormal community will be there! Come on, it’s—
“It’s like the craziest undead, furry, fangy Brady Bunch holiday special ever.” Did I mention that Pazcuso’s lab god and my “father” programmed my newly zapped brain by making me watch endless hours of classic television reruns and worked me up to things like Breaking Bad and Dexter?
Yeah, well, he did. My brain came pre-programmed with a lot of things that an adult would know, since it was taken from an adult body, but the memory?
Nothing. The way things work in society?
Fuzzy. I knew things like fire equals hot and the big round ball in the sky is called the sun.
Letters and numbers existed, but sometimes jumbled.
Movement and talking? Like a stroke victim being rehabilitated—the goods were in there, but you have to dig to find them?
Science Dude’s answer? Just keep him in a cell for a month, walking on the treadmill until my legs remember what they’re for, with televisions going nonstop so my rewired brain would pick up knowledge about things like manners, car chases, and serial killers.
Rhea appears in the doorway between the garage and the office, an angel in tight jeans and a fuzzy red Christmas sweater, the white streak in her hair glistening like a river of snow and starlight.
“It’s the only family some of us will ever have, Laz.
Will you take over the side dish we’re supposed to be bringing?
Just show up at one and ask Claire, Georgie, Wes, or Gloria where to set down the casserole dishes. ”
“Dishes? Plural?”
“Well, you have to make enough food for fifty or sixty servings, dear. You know how Orcs eat. And when the Angelakis family arrives—not to mention Genesis and Melinda...”
“I get it. Monsters have big appetites.”
“Well, some do. Gloria and Mr. Minegold won’t eat much. Now, I’ve cut the acorn squash into cubes. That’s the hardest part. Just follow the recipe I left on the fridge.”
“What? I have to cook?” No, no, no. I wasn’t programmed or trained or whatever for cooking. I can microwave and order takeout when I want to eat. I don’t really need to.
“You have to stir, toss, and dump onto pans. The oven does the cooking.” Rhea comes over and kisses my cheek, then stands back and looks in my eyes, her thumb and forefinger cradling my chin as she regards me seriously. “If this adoption happens someday... You will babysit, won’t you?”
Me? Responsible for a tiny little thing? Their tiny, precious human, their way-too-easy-to-accidentally-damage thing?
“Of course he will!” Manny puts his arm around his wife’s shoulders, and they look at me with such utter confidence.
Like I’m someone good.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll make the stupid squash,” I mutter.
“You’re a sweet soul. My sweet boy,” Rhea whispers, hugging me tight. “You have the key to the house?”
“I do.” “Mom” almost slips out at the end of my sentence. I do, Mom.
“You should be over here by nine. You’re going to need at least thirty minutes to prep everything, then an hour to roast, nice and low and slow so they retain the flavors.”
“Honey, he’ll figure it out; he’s a smart kid. We have to get going in the next half hour if we want to get to the hotel in Pittsburgh tonight.”
“And we’ll probably be back by three or four tomorrow. It won’t be a long meeting. Everyone has plans,” Rhea says, tossing a scarf around her neck.
“If it’s so short, isn’t this a waste of time? Why don’t you just meet online? Zoom or something?” I suggest.
Manny’s sunny face is suddenly a storm warning. “That woman might trust us with her child’s life, Lazarus. Nothing is too much time or trouble. You know how we’d do anything for you? Well, we have to show her that we’d do anything for this baby, too.”
Sometimes they talk to me like I’m a little kid. I hate it. And I like it.
I want a drink. “Got it. You’d better go.”
And in half an hour, they do, with lots of excited smiles and way too much luggage for just one overnight trip.
This lady better pick them. She couldn’t do any better.
And by God, no one would ever hurt that kid if I were its big brother. Not a single damn hair on his or her little soft skull would get pulled without me snapping some brat’s fingers.
I take a deep breath, shuddering it out slowly.
I make my way home to the empty mausoleum I’ve converted into my squatter’s flat, hoping there’s some decent whisky left.