Sierra Woods - The Resurrectionist

“Uh, how will I know when that happens?”

“That is unknown. At this time we are offering the warning to all.”

“Well, that’s some comfort, I suppose.”

“Do not underestimate the power of this entity. It has been dormant for millennia and now seeks its vengeance.” For a moment I saw every one of his four thousand years revealed in his eyes, and a chill rose over me as the full effect of his warning got to me. Then the moment was gone, and the teenager with a goofy grin returned. “Man, this is just too much fun.” Hopping on his board, he was off in a flash and a whoop of delight. Too bad more people aren’t pleased so easily. I’m certainly not, though a big gun and a frozen margarita come close.

“I don’t understand what you see in that kid. He’s nothing but trouble.” Sam was right behind me, and I nearly jumped, but I controlled the urge to clobber him. My instincts are finely tuned, and I could have given him a bloody lip just then, or driven his testicles up into his eye sockets, but I restrained myself. Turning, I gave him a glare instead, but the sunglasses made it less effective. Sometimes I’m just too nice.

“What are you doing? You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.” Especially now with universal warnings of doom and gloom on the horizon.

“I know, but with you?” The shrug said it all and his army Ranger training proved it. He liked to live dangerously around me. “That kid’s trouble.”

If he only knew. “He’s harmless. He’s probably just like you were at that age.” Yeah, right.

Sam glared down at me, and I was surprised his shades didn’t melt. “Don’t ever compare me to that kid. Ever.”

O-o-o-kay. An unintended arrow hit a tender spot I hadn’t known existed. “Why not?” I just had to know.

“Don’t go there, Dani. It’s none of your business.”

“You’re the one who made it my business by giving me a bone with nothing on it.”

“Forget it. I heard him mention not taking any risks right now. Is he threatening you?” Sam stepped forward, violating my personal space and trying to pressure me into telling him something I don’t want to. Won’t work on me. I’m immune to that sort of pressure.

I almost laughed. Burton? Threatening me? Pfft. But this new thing? Had me thinking. “It’s fine. See you later.” Some secrets are mine to keep, and I don’t have to explain them to anyone. Not even the man who watches my back.

“Dammit, Dani, if something’s going on I need to know about it. If I’m to protect you, I need to know what’s going on.” He followed me at the pace I set.

“You need to trust me, that’s what you need to do.” I won’t be controlled. After one disastrous relationship like that, I was never doing another, not even with Sam.

He said nothing because he knew I was right and wouldn’t admit it. He didn’t trust anyone. Me more than most, but not enough to sit down and have share-time over coffee. That pissed me off, so this conversation was over. We were at a stalemate on the issue, but at the moment it didn’t matter. I knew he had his reasons that were related to his military service and probably his life growing up in the barrio. These were areas of his life he spoke little of, and I respected that, but I didn’t like it. “Catch you later.”

As I walked away I felt Sam’s eyes watching my ass, not my back, so I put a deliberate saunter in my stride and took a quick look over my shoulder. There he was, feet spread apart, arms crossed over the chest I’d like to spend some time crawling across. Seriously, there ought to be a cartography class for women who want to map out a man’s geography to remember fondly later. Then, I caught his gaze over the rim of my sunglasses, and there was nothing except complete male appreciation in those eyes. The look said he’d have me on my back with my feet in the air if he thought he could do it without getting his jewels crushed. That made me laugh, and I turned around again, leaving him with his tongue hanging out.

It’s good to know that there are some consistencies in life I can depend on and for some men to behave like men. That thought made me smile a little bigger, and the tension of the day eased a bit. Sam was nothing if not dependable.

* * *

There’s only one thing I hate worse than weepy women, and that’s weepy men. Today, I had ’em both. They’re manipulative, whether they mean to be or not. People come to me all the time to resurrect their loved ones, but if it isn’t for the right reasons, I won’t help them no matter how much they cry. I hate being manipulated.

A young couple, Juanita and Julio Ramirez, sat across the desk from me in my office. The pain in her eyes reached out to me. “Please, please, Miss Wright. You have to help us.”

“But this isn’t what I do. You need a psychic, not me. I come in at the end when everything is settled. I don’t find lost people.” I charge in on my white steed and send the bad guy away, but not till all the shootin’s done.

“No one else can do it. He’s our only child, and he’s gone!”

That did it. I was on the job, whether it was normally my job or not. I couldn’t not help, even if all I did was offer comfort.

I have an unfortunate kinship to these people, but they’ll never know it. My personal loss must stay buried in order for me to work successfully with others like me.

Before I could move away, Juanita took my hand in hers. Unable to remove my hand from her grip without looking totally stupid, I had to sit there while she cried onto my skin. My nerves are raw and the sensations I pick up are extreme. That’s why I don’t touch people very often. I pick up their vibes, their emotions, and their life force if I’m not careful. The skin reveals a lot in the sweat, the texture, the nerve endings that send out little pulses, and we just don’t realize it. If people knew others picked up all of that information, we’d never touch each other. Don’t get me started on the bacterial transmission.

With Juanita hanging over my arm and sobbing on the desk, I had no choice except to ingest the energy she put off, and I tried to resist it as much as possible. It was like being simmered in menudo. A greasy soup of animal parts you don’t want to have identified.

“Juanita.” I tried to focus and push away the overload oozing out of her. She was a terrified mother, and I felt every emotion, every pulse of her terror knifing through my head. I had to get the woman off me or we were both going to be on the floor sobbing and nothing would get done to save her son. “Sit up and tell me what’s going on.”

After one last wail, she sat and released my arm. Oh! What a relief. I could breathe again. I couldn’t think without having her emotions bleed into my brain. It was sad enough in there. It didn’t need any help.

Juanita was one of those unfortunate women who were too caught up in appearances. At around age twenty-four or so, she was truly beautiful, her skin flawless, her hair shoulder length and a thick, dark brown. It was the makeup that killed the effect. She’d shaved off her brows completely and drawn them in with a pencil in an unnaturally high arch on her forehead.

Maybe she thought it looked good. Maybe Julio liked her that way, but the effect made her look overly alert, as if she were questioning everything you say.

“Well.” She looked to her husband, who had yet to say a word. “Our son, Roberto, has been missing for two days. Two days! The police are too slow. He’s out there by himself.” The implication being that if he weren’t found immediately, he was going to die. The bigger implication was that he was already dead. I recalled hearing something about this case and feeling the urgent energy of the cops, but I tried not to watch or listen to the news too much. It overwhelms and depresses me.