instantly went into combat mode, lashing out with her arms and legs, delivering one solid punch that brought out a startled “Oomph,” from her attacker before he caught and secured her arms, straddling her.
She found herself looking up into the eyes of Jagger DeFarge.
“Fiona!”
“DeFarge!” she lashed back angrily. “Get off me.”
He didn’t comply, though he released her arms as he remained straddled over her, staring down at her angrily.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
“It’s obvious what I’m doing here—cleaning up the mess,” she replied.
“It’s my concern,” he told her.
“No, it’s mine. I’m responsible in circumstances like these, and I have no guarantee that you’ll do the right thing,” she replied.
“Well, I’m here, and I’m handling the situation,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down at her.
“Will you please get off me?” she inquired.
Before he could respond, the door opened. The young night attendant walked in, flicking on the bright overhead lights.
Jagger and Fiona stared at one another as the attendant let out a startled cry.
Jagger rose instantly to his feet, shushing the man with authority. “It’s all right. I’m Detective DeFarge, just looking for Dr. Dewey and the results of this autopsy.”
“I’m about to put her on ice for the night,” the attendant said. “Dr. Dewey will be in first thing in the morning to start the autopsy.”
As he spoke, the corpse on the gurney jackknifed into a sitting position, the sheet falling to reveal her naked torso.
The young man opened his mouth to let out a scream, but Jagger leaped over the table in an instant, slipping behind him and silencing him with a hand over the mouth, pulling the door shut with his other hand.
Tina Lawrence glared around, a hissing growl coming from her lips.
Then she parted those lips to reveal dripping fangs.
Despite her calling in life and the way she’d died, Tina Lawrence was still beautiful. Her blond hair cascaded over the white flesh of her shoulders, and despite the terrifying distraction of her fangs, she had lovely wide blue eyes, which settled on the attendant with hunger.
He spoke from beneath Jagger’s hold, his words muffled but audible. “She’s alive. She’s alive!”
Jagger stared at Fiona. “Take him—quickly. Silence him.”
She hurried over to where Jagger was struggling with the attendant—both to hold him still and to keep from hurting him. She grasped the young man’s arms, staring into his eyes. “Quiet now, quiet. It’s all right. You’re dreaming this. You’re asleep at your desk, and you know that you have to wake up, that you have a job to do….”
She kept speaking softly. Jagger apparently assured himself that everything was fine and turned toward the corpse of Tina Lawrence, but as he did, the corpse leaped naked from the table, ready to pounce on Fiona and the young attendant.
Jagger slipped between them just in time.
As she continued trying to calm the attendant, Fiona saw that Jagger had taken a weapon from his jacket.
It was far superior to her own, a long stake, honed to a sharp point, even narrower than hers. He took Tina Lawrence into his arms, and, just before her newly grown fangs could tear into his throat, he struck hard, delivering the lethal blow directly through the wall of her chest and straight into her heart.
The corpse collapsed against him.
Despite her prowess with hypnotic mind control, Fiona began to lose the young morgue attendant.
He began to emit a low moaning sound and started to slip lower in her arms.
She had a feeling then that he must be a football player—a blocker or a tackle—with Tulane or Loyola, because she simply didn’t have the strength to stop him from falling. Though she tried to hold him upright, she began to slip to the floor.
She heard Jagger swearing softly as he shoved the corpse of Tina Lawrence quickly back onto the table and came to help her.
But by then the attendant had passed out cold.
“We’ve got to get him back to his desk,” Jagger told her.
“What if someone else is in the hallway? There are still people in the building,” she warned.
“Get out there and make sure no one is coming,” he told her. “Quickly.”
“Why me?”
“Well, you obviously can’t lift him.”
“All right, all right, I’m going,” Fiona said, and pointed an angry finger at him. “But you don’t give me orders. I am the Keeper!”
“And you’re going to have a hell of a lot to keep if you don’t get moving,” he told her.
She wanted to reply; she wanted the last word.
But they needed to hurry. She rushed out into the hallway.
It was clear.
“Now,” she told Jagger, sticking her head back into the autopsy room.
Luckily the attendant’s desk was just down the hall. She rushed toward it, ready to fend off anyone who might come by.
Jagger had lifted the attendant as if he were no more than a ten-pound lapdog and was hurrying toward the desk. Just beyond the desk, Fiona saw a door opening. She rushed toward it just in time to see an older man in a lab jacket about to come through.
“Oh!” she said, staring at him, trying to lock her eyes on his and demand his attention.
Apparently she succeeded, because he stared curiously back at her.
“Hello,” he said weakly.
She smiled. “You’re so tired—you’ve been working very hard. Go and get your things, then go on home and have a nap. You’re hallucinating, you’re so tired.”
“I’m so tired,” he echoed. “You’re a lovely hallucination.”
“Thank you.”
He was of average height and weight, with close-cropped white hair. He was usually very dignified looking, she was certain, but right now he was staring at her with wide-eyed wonder.
“You’re daydreaming, sir. You have to go home. You need some rest.”
“Yes, yes, but … why don’t you come, too, and make this
