The Laughing Corpse - Laurell K. Hamilton [20]
I had visions of her digging the talons into my flesh, and was all tensed to pull away. But she simply placed the gris-gris on my open palm. Feathers, bits of bone, the dried hawk foot. It wasn’t slimy. It didn’t hurt. In fact, I felt a little silly.
Then I felt it, warmth. The thing was warm, sitting there in my hand. It hadn’t been warm a second ago. “What are you doing to it?”
Dominga didn’t answer. I glanced up at her, but her eyes were staring at my hand, intent. Like a cat about to pounce.
I glanced back down. The talons flexed, then spread, then flexed. It was moving in my hand. “Shiiit!” I wanted to stand up. To fling the vile thing to the floor. But I didn’t. I sat there with every hair on my body tingling, my pulse thudding in my throat, and let the thing move in my hand. “All right,” my voice sounded breathy, “I’ve passed your little test. Now get this thing the hell out of my hand.”
Dominga lifted the claw gently from my hand. She was careful not to touch my skin. I didn’t know why, but it was a noticeable effort.
“Dammit, dammit!” I whispered under my breath. I rubbed my hand against my stomach, touching the gun hidden there. It was comforting to know that if worse came to worst, I could just shoot her. Before she scared me to death. “Can we get down to business now?” My voice sounded almost steady. Bully for me.
Dominga was cradling the claw in her hands. “You made the claw move. You were frightened, but not surprised. Why?”
What could I say? Nothing I wanted her to know. “I have an affinity with the dead. It responds to me like some people can read thoughts.”
She smiled. “Do you really believe that your ability to raise the dead is like mind reading? Parlor tricks?”
Dominga had obviously never met a really good telepath. If she had, she wouldn’t have been scornful. In their own way, they were just as scary as she was.
“I raise the dead, Señora. It is just a job.”
“You do not believe that any more than I do.”
“I try real hard,” I said.
“You’ve been tested before by someone.” She made it a statement.
“My grandmother on my mother’s side tested me, but not with that.” I pointed to the still flexing foot. It looked like one of those fake hands that you can buy at Spencer’s. Now that I wasn’t holding it, I could pretend it just had tiny little batteries in it somewhere. Right.
“She was vaudun?”
I nodded.
“Why did you not study with her?”
“I have an inborn gift for raising the dead. That doesn’t dictate my religious preferences.”
“You are Christian.” She made the word sound like something bad.
“That’s it.” I stood. “I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, but it hasn’t.”
“Ask your questions, chica.”
“What?” The change of subject was too fast for me.
“Ask whatever you came here to ask,” she said.
I glanced at Manny. “If she says she will answer, she will answer.” He didn’t look completely happy about it.
I sat down, again. The next insult and I’m outta here. But if she could really help . . . oh, hell, she was dangling that thin little thread of hope. And after what I’d seen at the Reynolds house, I was grabbing for it.
I had planned to be as polite as possible on the wording of the question, now I didn’t give a shit. “Have you raised a zombie in the last few weeks?”
“Some,” she said.
Okay. I hesitated over the next question. The feel of that thing moving in my hand flashed back on me. I rubbed my hand against my pants leg as if I could rub the sensation away. What was the worst she could do to me if I offended her? Don’t ask. “Have you sent any zombies out on errands . . . of revenge?” There; that was polite, amazing.
“None.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
She smiled. “I’d remember if I loosed murderers from the grave.”
“Killer zombies don’t have to be murderers,” I said.
“Oh?” Her pale eyebrows raised. “Are you so very familiar with raising ‘killer’ zombies?”
I fought the urge to squirm like a schoolchild caught