Diana Rowland - How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back

I gave him a blank look. “Voice of the Tribe? What, like a radio show?”

Amusement flashed across his face, but to his credit he didn’t laugh out loud. “No,” he said, allowing himself a slight smile. “As in speaking with authority, for us to Andrew.”

My mouth dropped open. “Me?” I spluttered. Dream. Had to be. Obviously I was still drooling on the couch. Best to play along, though, just in case. “Why not Brian?”

Pierce glanced over at the implacable head of security. “Despite all of his qualities above and beyond his official role, Saber will only see him as muscle, with no real authority. Same for Philip but with even less respect.”

“And how do you expect him to see me ?” I retorted. “I’m a high school dropout, and a former felon and drug addict.”

“You have street savvy, Angel, and you’re clever under pressure. It has nothing to do with what you were, it’s about who you are. ” Pierce lifted his chin toward Brian. “You already established yourself during the info gathering session, and we’ll help with general effect. Brian will be at your shoulder just as he would be with me—if I was still who I was.” A faint grimace crossed his face. “Angel, I need you to do this.”

The voice of the Tribe. I sucked in a soft breath. All those years of being forced to watch The Godfather because, according to my dad, it was the Best Movie Ever, were about to pay off. “You want me to be your consigliere! ”

Pierce looked down, and this time I knew he was holding back a laugh. After a moment, he cleared his throat and lifted his head again. “In a manner of speaking, yes. At least for this.”

“Okay, I’ll do it.” I gave a cheeky grin. “Hell, I’m his zombie mama now, so that should hold some weight.”

Now he did laugh, but it was with and not at me. “Very well, let’s review what needs to be said.”

Once again, thanks to Naomi, I looked nothing at all like me. Black tailored jacket with matching slim skirt, white silk blouse, shoes with red soles which were apparently some sort of Big Deal, makeup that made me look mature and professional instead of the “slutty” I’d’ve managed on my own, and hair pinned up in an impossibly sleek style. I looked totally badass in an entirely different way.

Brian stood back and raked an assessing gaze over me, then stepped forward to adjust the drape of the fine gold chain at my throat. “Nervous?” he asked with a smile as he brushed a speck of invisible lint off the shoulder of my jacket.

“Should I be?” I asked nervously.

He chuckled. “I’m going to be right behind you, looking like this.” He stood straight in his perfect dark suit, folded his arms over his chest, and put on his best Terminator face.

I burst out laughing. “Uh, yes,” I cleared my throat, “quite terrifying.”

He dropped his arms, lips twitching. “It is to everyone but you. ”

“Oh, all right, I guess I can see it.”

Brian reached into his pocket and pulled out a tube of cherry ChapStick. “Do I need to use this?”

Laughing, I held up my hands in surrender. Many months ago I’d made a silly challenge that had ended up with Brian planting a ChapStick-laden smooch on me. “Anything but that! Fine, let’s get this over with.”

With a dramatic sigh of regret, Brian replaced the lip balm in his pocket. “Do you want to ambush him in his room or call him in somewhere?” he asked. “There are merits to both.”

“Call him to us,” I replied without hesitation. “We’ll be set and ready, and that gives us the power position. It’ll be like calling him onto the carpet.” I paused. “Not that I know what that feels like.”

“Of course not,” he agreed with a totally straight face. “The parlor will work.”

“There’s a parlor?”

“That would be the room with the sofa you drooled on,” he explained. “I’ll get you settled, then go get him.”

Awake and coherent, I saw it really was a parlor. Or a living room. Either way, it was perfect for what we had in mind. Simply furnished: Sofa, coffee table, wingback chair.

First order of business was a bit of rearranging for best effect and to make sure there’d be no available seat for Andrew. The sofa was already against the back wall, so we moved the wingback chair directly in front of it, and the table to my right. With the sofa effectively blocked, I plopped into the chair then had to experiment with how best to sit. Legs crossed or uncrossed? If crossed, at the ankle or the knee? Hands on the chair or folded in my lap? What looked the toughest? And why the hell wasn’t there a mirror handy so I could practice my Power Zombie Consigliere expressions?

Fidgeting, I adjusted my jacket and finally settled on legs crossed at the knee, hands on the armrests. While waiting, I mentally ran over the main points I needed to touch on and reminded myself that if I fucked up Brian was there to bail me out.

How ’bout we not fuck up, ’kay?

At the sound of footsteps in the hall I quickly composed my face into what I hoped was a serene expression and prayed that I didn’t simply look half-asleep.

Andrew stepped into the room, mild scowl on his face. He’d cleaned up and been given new clothing, but his t-shirt and sweats didn’t carry anywhere near the oomph of my kickass suit. I love you, Naomi! I silently crowed.

Brian entered right behind him and closed the door, then took up the promised position behind me and to my left. Andrew clearly wasn’t happy about the demand for his presence, and the ever-so-faint whiff of rot coming from him told me he was probably a bit hungry as well. He took in the sight of me all dressed up like a real person, and a whisper of a sneer began to form. I saw the moment it registered that the furniture arrangement left him nowhere to sit, and I hid my amusement as his expression settled into a solid glare.

“Andrew, it’s so nice to see you again.” I gave him a very pleasant smile. “Brian, do we have any brain chips left? I think those might help put Andrew in a slightly better mood.” Damn, but this shit was fun.

“Yes, ma’am,” Brian said without hesitation, once again forcing me to control my expression. “I’ll get them.”

Andrew looked even more off-balance after the “ma’am” thing, which of course was part of the reason for it. Yet even if he thought it was all a show, I knew he still had to be wondering why.

“Thank you for coming,” I said as Brian strode to the door. “We need to hash out a few details before you go your own way.”

Andrew watched Brian leave then returned his attention to me. This time the look he gave me was careful and assessing, no doubt trying to figure out what the hell my role was. “What sort of details?”

“It’s hard when you’re first turned,” I said, sort of ignoring his question. “The hunger, I mean. You’ll find that you burn through the brains more quickly if you exert yourself a lot, but otherwise you’ll likely need somewhere around one brain every week and a half.” Hot damn, I got through that without stumbling!

Denial and disgust swept over his face. “I don’t want to eat a brain every week and a half. This is—” He stopped, and I had an overpowering feeling he’d almost finished with not happening . “This is not my life.”

“I know this is a really hard adjustment,” I said, keeping my voice deliberately gentle. “But you’re not alone, and you’re not without resources.” I made a vague gesture to take in the house and its occupants. Brian returned as I did, carrying a bowl of chips and a plate with what looked and smelled like marinated and grilled brain slices. He placed them on the table beside me, then resumed his position at my back.