wasn’t the easiest thing in a small town. Now, I’m not saying that people in Duvall are nosy, but just because I don’t say it doesn’t make it not true. And if it got around that someone used my blood and hair to raise the dead, we’d probably have two camps. Some people would come on over to ask me to raise all their aunt Marlenes for an occult iced-tea party, and other people would start collecting wood for a town barbeque with yours truly as the main attraction.
So time was important. Zombies are basically nocturnal, and night was in an all-fired-up hurry to take over the sky. I went in the kitchen and dug out the mortar and pestle. I knew at least two ingredients that I’d put in for certain: my blood and my hair. To undo a spell, a little of the hair of the dog, or in my case, pastry chef, seemed logical because they must have been the active ingredients, but I was pretty much stumped at the rest. I consulted the Internet, vowing never to tell Momma about this. I searched by herbs and found that passionflowers are good for peace and sleep, which was exactly what I wanted for Mrs. Barnaby. I wondered if we had any dried passionflowers in storage, but then when I checked to see what passionflowers look like, I realized that the big star-shaped violet blossoms blooming in the backyard were exactly what I needed.
“Well, fancy that,” I said to Merc, who was half-asleep on the counter. “My luck is changing for the better all the time.”
I didn’t totally believe that, but I was trying to think and act positive, to give myself the best chance of success. I walked outside and stood looking at the green vine that had climbed all the way up the tallest tree to get out from under a shady canopy. Bursting purple in the sunlight, passionflowers beamed down at me. I kicked off my slip-on shoes and climbed up the lowest branch of the tree. It was fun, like when we were all kids and used to climb trees. It had always been a competition to see which boy could climb the highest and which girl he’d pull up with him. The first day Zach took me to a treetop was one of my happiest memories. When we were kids, Zach did all sorts of stuff to get my attention. By the time we got married, he acted like all the sweet things he’d done as a boy meant he didn’t need to do anything new, like love was money in the bank that would be there if you just left it alone.
I thought about the time I’d wanted to go to Galveston for a romantic weekend. He thought it’d be a waste of money to stay in a fancy hotel, and maybe he was right about that. But it didn’t hurt my feelings any less when he bought a new fishing rod and splurged on a charter with his buddies to go deep-sea fishing. When I got mad about him not spending time with me, his response was, “Hell, sweetheart, you can come fishing with us. Not like we’ve got kids you need to stay home with yet.”
I shook my head. Like deep-sea fishing with him and the boys was any woman’s idea of romantic. But I could’t change his mind by talking to him. He always did what he felt like doing, except that one time I got my way. Too bad it was in divorce court.
I plucked a flower and climbed down. In the house I showed it to Merc. “Look how pretty that is,” I said, and he blinked. A deep violet color, the ten petals were arranged like a pinwheel, contrasting nicely with the silvery strands that pushed out from the center. In the middle there were thick pale flower parts crisscrossed into a pattern that reminded me of a pentacle. I decided that was a good omen.
I wasn’t sure if live flower parts were more or less powerful than dried herbs so I decided, better safe than sorry, I’d use the whole thing. Then I lit a match and sterilized a sewing needle and pricked my finger.
I yelped, and Merc meowed in sympathy. I dripped blood into the purple mush then ground it all together with a few strands of my bright coppery hair.
“It’s too thick. I don’t want to have to
So time was important. Zombies are basically nocturnal, and night was in an all-fired-up hurry to take over the sky. I went in the kitchen and dug out the mortar and pestle. I knew at least two ingredients that I’d put in for certain: my blood and my hair. To undo a spell, a little of the hair of the dog, or in my case, pastry chef, seemed logical because they must have been the active ingredients, but I was pretty much stumped at the rest. I consulted the Internet, vowing never to tell Momma about this. I searched by herbs and found that passionflowers are good for peace and sleep, which was exactly what I wanted for Mrs. Barnaby. I wondered if we had any dried passionflowers in storage, but then when I checked to see what passionflowers look like, I realized that the big star-shaped violet blossoms blooming in the backyard were exactly what I needed.
“Well, fancy that,” I said to Merc, who was half-asleep on the counter. “My luck is changing for the better all the time.”
I didn’t totally believe that, but I was trying to think and act positive, to give myself the best chance of success. I walked outside and stood looking at the green vine that had climbed all the way up the tallest tree to get out from under a shady canopy. Bursting purple in the sunlight, passionflowers beamed down at me. I kicked off my slip-on shoes and climbed up the lowest branch of the tree. It was fun, like when we were all kids and used to climb trees. It had always been a competition to see which boy could climb the highest and which girl he’d pull up with him. The first day Zach took me to a treetop was one of my happiest memories. When we were kids, Zach did all sorts of stuff to get my attention. By the time we got married, he acted like all the sweet things he’d done as a boy meant he didn’t need to do anything new, like love was money in the bank that would be there if you just left it alone.
I thought about the time I’d wanted to go to Galveston for a romantic weekend. He thought it’d be a waste of money to stay in a fancy hotel, and maybe he was right about that. But it didn’t hurt my feelings any less when he bought a new fishing rod and splurged on a charter with his buddies to go deep-sea fishing. When I got mad about him not spending time with me, his response was, “Hell, sweetheart, you can come fishing with us. Not like we’ve got kids you need to stay home with yet.”
I shook my head. Like deep-sea fishing with him and the boys was any woman’s idea of romantic. But I could’t change his mind by talking to him. He always did what he felt like doing, except that one time I got my way. Too bad it was in divorce court.
I plucked a flower and climbed down. In the house I showed it to Merc. “Look how pretty that is,” I said, and he blinked. A deep violet color, the ten petals were arranged like a pinwheel, contrasting nicely with the silvery strands that pushed out from the center. In the middle there were thick pale flower parts crisscrossed into a pattern that reminded me of a pentacle. I decided that was a good omen.
I wasn’t sure if live flower parts were more or less powerful than dried herbs so I decided, better safe than sorry, I’d use the whole thing. Then I lit a match and sterilized a sewing needle and pricked my finger.
I yelped, and Merc meowed in sympathy. I dripped blood into the purple mush then ground it all together with a few strands of my bright coppery hair.
“It’s too thick. I don’t want to have to
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