Read Online The Laughing Corpse by Laurell K. Hamilton - Free Book Online

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.
    â€œI raise the dead, Señora. It is just a job.”
    â€œYou do not believe that any more than I do.”
    â€œI try real hard,” I said.
    â€œYou’ve been tested before by someone.” She made it a statement.
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œShe was vaudun?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWhy did you not study with her?”
    â€œI have an inborn gift for raising the dead. That doesn’t dictate my religious preferences.”
    â€œYou are Christian.” She made the word sound like something bad.
    â€œThat’s it.” I stood. “I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, but it hasn’t.”
    â€œAsk your questions, chica .”
    â€œWhat?” The change of subject was too fast for me.
    â€œAsk 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?”
    â€œSome,” 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.
    â€œNone.”
    â€œAre you sure?” I asked.
    She smiled. “I’d remember if I loosed murderers from the grave.”
    â€œKiller zombies don’t have to be murderers,” I said.
    â€œOh?” Her pale eyebrows raised. “Are you so very familiar with raising ‘killer’ zombies?”
    I fought the urge to squirm like a schoolchild caught at a lie. “Only one.”
    â€œTell me.”
    â€œNo.” My voice was very firm. “No, that is a private matter.” A private nightmare that I was not going to share with the voodoo lady.
    I decided to change the subject just a little. “I’ve raised murderers before. They weren’t more violent than regular undead.”
    â€œHow many dead have you called from the grave?” she asked.
    I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
    â€œGive me an”—she seemed to be groping for a word—“estimation.”
    â€œI can’t. It must have been hundreds.”
    â€œA thousand?” she asked.
    â€œMaybe, I haven’t kept count,” I said.
    â€œHas your boss at Animators, Incorporated, kept count?”
    â€œI would assume that all my clients are on file, yes,” I