Read Online Resurrected (Resurrected Series Book 1) by S. M. Schmitz - Free Book Online Page A

spot – a white two door Yaris with a hatchback, something my Lottie wouldn’t have chosen because it wouldn’t easily fit car seats in the too small rear seat and getting babies in and out of a two door would be real pain in the ass – and found an empty visitor’s parking spot along the edge of the complex. Lydia’s car wasn’t next to hers, but I didn’t expect it to be. Lydia was still at work.
    They both worked at the same bookstore, a job my Lottie would have loved if only because it meant being surrounded by books all day. She had always obstinately refused to let me get her an e-reader and wouldn’t use mine. She collected books like a philatelist collects stamps, but stamps were small. Stamps were light. Stamps would be easy to move in and out of apartments. She never had to move boxes of books up three flights of apartment stairs.
    The joy she took, though, in finding an autographed copy of one of her favorite books, or the pure elation and adoration on her face as we waited in line to meet one of her favorite authors at a book convention in Dallas always made me secretly happy that she wasn’t a closet philatelist. I figured when we ran out of space for her books in our apartment, I would just buy us a bigger house.
    Now, as I stood outside her apartment building, taking in the New Orleans inspired wrought iron railings, perhaps meant to be reminiscent of the French Quarter, I wondered how much room she had for bookcases. If she even had the same obsessive book-collecting nature my Lottie had. I climbed the stairs to the second floor where her apartment was, swatting occasionally at one of the omnipresent mosquitoes of south Louisiana. The closer it got to dusk, the worse they would get. There weren’t many things I missed about Germany. Not being eaten alive by swarms of insects was one of them. We have mosquitoes, of course, but I have never been anywhere that is plagued with them the way this place is. I harbored a very deep suspicion that Louisiana had been cursed, much like Biblical Egypt with its locusts.
    I killed another mosquito that had just landed on my forearm as I reached her door. I took a deep breath. I wanted to give myself a few minutes, collect my thoughts, make sure I knew the exact words to say and in the right tone and the right syntax, but I was growing increasingly worried that if I waited too long, I would contract West Nile. Or need a blood transfusion. Or I just really hated mosquitoes. So I knocked.
    I waited, knowing there was a very good chance she wouldn’t even open the door for me. I knew she was home. The lights were on, and I could hear the muffled music she must be listening to, faintly smell the scents of the meal she was cooking for her own supper, and maybe Lydia’s. Lottie was thoughtful like that. She would have even waited for Jamie … or Lydia … to get home.
    I heard her approach the door and I held my breath. She had stopped on the other side. No sounds. She hadn’t walked away but no locks being unlocked, no cursing at me, telling me to fuck off. I slapped at another mosquito. I don’t know what made me think I actually could talk to her like she was just Lottie, but I heard myself blurting out, “If you don’t want to let me in, can I at least borrow some mosquito repellant?” It was close to dusk now. It was like being attacked by vampires. Honestly, I would have taken my chances with a vampire or two.
    A few more tense seconds passed with silence, except for the unbelievably obnoxious buzzing of mosquito wings as they flitted past my ears. Then I heard the unmistakable sounds of a deadbolt sliding out of its lock, and the door quickly swung open. She stood there, in a Banana Republic t-shirt and cotton shorts, her soft brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, and she quickly motioned me inside. “Hurry,” she said, “before they all get in.” I hurriedly stepped inside.
    The smell of Lottie’s Bolognese sauce filled the apartment. Such a