999 Lives: Tennessee England: Book Two: The Tennessee England Series, #2

By Disa Dawn

Join Tennessee England and her misfit crew on another zany supernatural adventure!

 

Demon-wrangling mortician Tennessee England plays detective. When a corpse shows signs of foul play, Tennessee's on the case! Cats are missing. People are drowning. Could the cozy beach town of Saint James have a cat-nabbing serial killer in its midst?

 

Catching a killer should be as easy as embalming a corpse, right? Wrong. The town is stewing in mystical mayhem. It's infested with demons! And the culprit is hiding in a sea of quirky locals.

 

Then there's Doctor Phillip Saint James, the ex-boyfriend, analyzing Tennessee's bizarre shenanigans with her hot new boyfriend. Under Phillip's watchful eye and iron thumb, it's tough keeping her supernatural secrets.

 

Between sleuthing and skirting disasters, Tennessee has no time for love. Still, she longs for love lost and hungers for adventure with someone new.

 

Will Tennessee finally listen to her heart? Or will she stumble into a killer's grasp?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yesternight Press, LLC
• Release date: May 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781947411043

Disa Dawn

Disa Dawn writes cozy supernatural adventures featuring daring heroines, mystical capers, and sweet romance. She’s known for her slick, snappy prose, diverse worlds, quirky plots, and happily ever afters. She’s the author of the Tennessee England series and the genre-bending saga The Seekin Trilogy. Studying poetics and creative writing at Naropa University inspired Disa to write books she wanted to read—sassy stories offering a warm escape from the cold world of reality, starring courageous heroines who also happen to be nice. Disa’s a Golden Rose Finalist and a National Indie Excellence® Cross-Genre Finalist. A native of Guam and the Mariana Islands, Disa now lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family, a dog, and a skeleton named Charlie.

Book preview

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999 Lives © 2019 by Ladisa Dawn Quintanilla

Cover Design by J Caleb @ jcalebdesign.com

Headshot Photo by Marie Pham @ mariephamphotography.com

All Rights Reserved.

999 Lives is a work of fiction. Characters, names, situations, places, dialogue, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used, distributed, scanned or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations cited in critical reviews or academic articles.

For information, address:

Yesternight Press, LLC PO Box 831 Woodland, WA 98674

Or visit: disadawn.com

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-947411-04-3

Print ISBN: 978-1-947411-05-0

For Maolek, the good cat

Contents

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1.Crossroads

2.Rewind

3.Waiting for the Aliens

4.Tennessee Whiskey

5.Guardians of What Galaxy?

6.Lessons of Lo Mein

7.First Rule

8.CATS

9.It Takes a Village and Pitchforks Help Too

10.The Art of Anchoring

11.Crazy Catnip Lady

12.Rigor Mortis

13.Hot Zombie Love

14.I Thought There Weren’t Guns in This World

15.Kar's Karma

16.If Smartphones Played Hop Scotch

17.Deputy Dogs

18.Cold Forge

19.Water Rites

20.Holy Moly

21.Sunday Best

22.Mortal Sins

23.Wise Water

24.Covet Thy Demon

25.Undone

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Tennessee's Mixtape #2

The Tennessee England Series

Dear Reader

Acknowledgments

Books by Disa

About Disa

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1

Crossroads

It had been two weeks since dying crossed Tennessee’s mind. Even now, standing on the most demon-infested land in the coastal town of Saint James, the brittle chill of winter pinching her cheeks pink, she focused on the task at hand.

She had a job to do, as crucial as it was simple: erect a goddamn cross.

Tennessee heaved the bottom half of a four-foot-tall wrought-iron cross from the dead end of her hearse. She kept her grip firm, careful not to scratch the scratched bumper. Riggy didn’t need another ding in his armor; he was already teetering the line between classic and heap.

Her blacksmith buddy, Jasper, was right. The cross was heavier than it looked. It might make sense if he had added more iron to the crucible when he forged the damn thing, but he hadn’t. He’d only melted down one measly demon-infested fencepost. She’d have to ask him about that, but right now her partner was getting on her nerves.

"Ssshhh!" Tennessee shot a hard side-eye at Sho.

The man’s boots crunched the gravel path, snapped a tiny twig—nothing her boots weren’t doing, but she was tired and pretty fed-up chasing demons across town. She’d take morticianing over wrangling any day.

Sho narrowed his gaze, and his black onyx irises beamed. Ten, your shushing is making more noise than my stepping. He clunked a shovel on top of the cross.

"Ssshhh!" Tennessee grumbled something unkind before struggling to lift the damn cross.

Let me. Sho bumped Tennessee’s hip aside. He had height, so it was an easy stretch to lift the top half up and out. He also had the muscle to bear most of the weight as they carried the cross through the battered remains of the town’s Best in Show English garden. It wasn’t the best now, not since greasy, old Stumpy Beetle got his junker hands on it.

Even though she was trailing, Tennessee tried to lead the way as they wove through Stumpy’s u-pick junkyard. They were just shy of his forgotten wheat fields when Tennessee tripped over a buried, rusted-out engine block. She dropped her end of the cross, barely managing a thumpy forward roll. It was way better than a face-first wham-flop.

Here is good, she groaned from a sprawl on her butt.

Sho’s rasp lifted in a laugh, but he was a gentleman, so he swallowed his smile. You must watch your step.

"Ssshhh!"

Tennessee maneuvered clumsily to her hands and knees, pushing herself up with all the grace of a block of lead. She was rushing Sho now, as if her demands would hasten his hole digging. Being there creeped her out. The last time they trespassed on Stumpy’s land, an evil wheat tornado nearly skewered them with serrated stalks and dirty toilets. It would have been a funny story to tell over beers and dogs if an unidentified demon squad wasn’t behind the deadly shenanigans.

Aren’t samurais supposed to be light on their feet? You know, like ninjas? She crimped a mischievous snarl.

The insult was evident in the stern set of Sho’s sturdy jaw. "The sneak attack is not the samurai way. And it is ninja. No s."

Tennessee almost shushed him again.

"Is this what Phillip meant by cranky?" he muttered, tossing a shovel of dirt beside her dusty black boots.

He said that? Now it was her turn to be insulted. Phillip was quickly falling back into his pre-breakup bad habits; two friendly lunch dates wasn’t squat to mending what he broke. Throwing around words like cranky wasn’t about to help win back her heart, especially now that Sho was doing a bang-up job as her pretend boyfriend. Even her best friends approved; hell, they downright loved the guy. And they didn’t even know the half of it. Without Sho teaching her how to be a demon wrangler and magically healing her physical bumps and bruises, she’d be one dead rookie demon wrangler.

Cranky, my ass. She kicked the pile of dirt at Sho’s boots. A rebellious wintry gust blew the grit right back in her face. Shit!

Sho dropped the shovel, lecturing on in an amused tenor about karma and something Phillip had said regarding her recent experimentation with vulgarity.

"Oh my god! He said that too?! She stomped her foot like the action might reach the hospital and knock the doctor upside his head. Phillip thinks everything I do is because of weak blood vessels in my goddamn brain! My personality isn’t changing. And I’m not crazy! You said it yourself, you fixed my just-waiting-to-drop-me-dead aneurysm!"

"Ssshhh!" Unnerved, Sho scanned the seedy lot.

Tennessee clenched her teeth. The stress of quieting her fury strained the vein running across her temple. I think being forced to wrangle a bunch of demons for a demon empress in competition with her sinister ex warrants a few goddamn cuss words. Don’t you?

Sho grinned. Goddamn right. The man loved her rants.

"I’m starting to understand Empress Zaada’s point of view. Maybe Ibrahim called her cranky!" Tennessee shoved Sho aside and hoisted that goddamn cross upright.

Ten, please allow me... Sho tried to help, but she was of the stubborn variety, a bit on the bratty side.

Tennessee was strong, thick, built like a woman made for womanly pursuits, like lifting demon-infused crosses into holes. With a final ump and oomph, she let gravity finish the job. Sho shoveled dirt back into the hole, and, thinking only of Phillip, Tennessee stomped it flat.

They stood back, taking in the iron cross smack dab in full view of Stumpy’s little ramshackle shack. The slimy junker had tortured the entire offensive line of Saint James High’s football team in that very shack, turning all but one Triton into a demon; then the bastard did nothing while demons killed the only hold out.

Tennessee rubbed the silver cross pendant hanging from a delicate chain around her neck; said a little prayer for the tortured and murdered, and another prayer for Henry, the first soul she’d saved by wrangling a demon from the poor kid’s hijacked body. That demon was imprisoned in the iron cross she’d just finished stomping into place.

You certain of this, Ten? We agreed to lay low for a while. Sho leaned his long, fit frame against the cross. "This sends a message."

Yep. She smirked, studying Sho’s black hair pulled into a short ponytail, damp from the misty morning fog. He returned her smirk and a faint taste of decadent salted chocolate moistened her mouth. Barely breaking from the intensifying hold he had on her, Tennessee yanked her windswept hair into a tangled knot. "We gotta know if they can get the demon out. If no, we go forward with these iron prisons, clean up the town. If yes…we’re screwed…it’s plan Z and we’ll probably all die."

Or, Sho took her hands into his, you’ll save us all.

Tennessee’s gaze stalled on Sho. Their bond was the only good she figured in the mess of bad and worse. As her keeper, he kept her safe, and as his wrangler, she kept him as close to human as possible. But he wasn’t human, and somewhere deep inside she feared he might one day fall. And if he became a demon, she’d soon follow.

She didn’t ask to be a wrangler, she didn’t ask to be a mortician, or a party planner, she especially didn’t ask to be a nanny. She didn’t ask to be what everyone else expected her to be, but, dammit, kids were getting hurt; a kid died, and more would die if she didn’t do her job. And do it well.

Ten, you’re getting cold. He pulled her away from the cross, back toward the hearse.

Don’t freak out, she sang dismissively. I’m getting better at deciphering what it means when my temperature drops. She pushed frizzy bangs back and shivery dewdrops cascaded into her eyes, streaking her coppery cheeks. "That’s the we’re watching you chill, not the we’re gonna kill you freeze."

Still, we should take cover. Sho pulled her behind a rusted trailer.

They stayed low for so long Tennessee’s feet fell asleep and Sho’s eyes actually closed. But he did that sometimes: just sat. She figured he was meditating or sifting through her emotions. Because he did that too. A lot. He craved the bad ones like she craved burgers and fries.

She tried meditating, but instead of releasing her thoughts like Sho instructed, she dissected, dismembered until she’d demolished any hope of peaceful sitting. Even now, her mind latched onto Saint James. It wasn’t an easy town to find. The Founders made sure of that. It wasn’t on any map, either. Some say it drifted between the borders of Oregon and Washington and California, maybe British Columbia.

Sure, locals welcomed tourists who stumbled upon the town, but most worked the sea; everyone owned a boat or knew someone who did, and outsiders rarely planted roots on this stretch of the Pacific Coast. The England family was the rare exception. The town needed a mortician, and with Mister and Missus they got two. After Tennessee was born, that made three. It was a natural fit. The Englands weren’t just islanders, they were indigenous; their seafaring roots ran deeper than the Mariana Trench. Even their name carried the scars of imperialism, colonization, and cultural subjugation.

Her mind coiled and kinked. Damn this meditation crap. She recalled things she’d rather forget, like how family illness and political pursuits had summoned Mister and Missus back to their island home, leaving her to forgo her graduate studies. Someone had to carry on the family business. In retrospect, it was only the third worst day of her life. The second being diagnosed with a near-fatal cerebral aneurysm, twice. And the first, well, that’s what had her staking out Stumpy’s junkyard a little before this wintry sunrise.

Ten…Ten! Wake up!

"Ssshhh! I was just resting my eyes…dang!"

As day broke from night, a short, plump, shirtless man stumbled from the shack. He managed a zig-zaggy slog to the fields, unhooked his overalls, and took a leak before his pants hit the dirt. It wasn’t until he stumbled back toward the shack that he saw the cross, draped in mist and fog.

Stumpy slurred insults, tantruming his arms about in a raucously manbaby rage. He lifted his leg to kick the cross, only when his foot should have hit iron, it didn’t. His foot crunched nothing but air, his knee buckled, and the deceitful man cried out in agony. But his cries were cut short when he lost balance and whacked himself unconscious with a nasty head slam on a stack of cut firewood.

As if summoned by the wicked man’s cries, a teen bounded out from the rotten wheat. Tennessee balled her fists as she recognized the black and red Saint James High Tritons’ football jersey. He was a puny kid, probably the kicker. But just like Stumpy, the boy couldn’t get close enough to try to kick the cross; worse, his jersey caught fire from mere proximity to the cleansed demon. Panicked, the boy booked it straight toward the trailer Tennessee and Sho were hiding behind.

Should I stop him? she snapped.

No, there’ll be others. Sho gripped Tennessee’s hand, rising to make the mad dash to Riggy.

With her free hand, Tennessee rooted through a bunch of junk, near desperate to find a suitable weapon. She nicked her palm on a rusty screwdriver half buried in muck. Why waste a perfectly good shovel with so much steel lying around? Steel’s just iron mixed with a little carbon, right?

The kicker was already on fire and Stumpy was still out cold, so Tennessee stuck her boot out as the flaming demon boy whooshed by.

A brutal face-plant left the kicker’s neck exposed.

Sho dropped to a knee, releasing Tennessee’s hand. Why do you even consult me?

I’m democratic like that. Tennessee scrambled on her hands and knees toward the flaming demon boy. She lifted the screwdriver overhead, singeing half her arm hairs as she plowed the screwdriver through the base of the kicker’s neck. The boy jerked and wailed and made a spectacle of ache.

She released the screwdriver, a teensy bit horrorstricken by the sight of the benign tool sticking straight up out of the boy’s spine. Flames lapping up the boy’s back would soon incinerate the screwdriver’s wooden handle. Tennessee scooped handfuls of dirt onto the kid’s burning clothes. A miserable moan escaped his body as a red-hot heat sizzled up the screwdriver, along with the foul sulfuric stench of a field of unfound Easter eggs back when folks used real eggs.

You could help, she chastised Sho with a squinty snarl.

Sho’s lips curved upwards as his deep rasp tumbled through the night. "I could."

Her near-comical scrunch of a look grew toxic. Still, Sho waited for Tennessee to remove the screwdriver from the demon’s latch before placing his left hand over the gaping hole severing the boy’s spine. A pained rumble from the boy’s chest crumpled into a hacking cough as the healed boy jolted to his feet. The kicker took one skewering glance at Tennessee before breaking into a flat-out run. He was off Stumpy’s land before either of them could stop him.

What’d you do to him? Tennessee socked Sho’s arm. Henry didn’t react like that. All he did was cry. If you got some high voltage powers in there, dang it, man, I should know!

Each body reacts differently. Sho brushed his hands off on his jeans, and when he started cleaning her hands she commented on his new obsession with cleanliness. It came out a tad jumbled because his darned devoted touch almost had her forgetting where they were and what they’d just done.

This wrangling business… her sultry delivery made him stop, it’s dirty work.

Sho’s amused gaze had Tennessee ready to release her emotional burdens.

The dirtiest, he rasped.

She regained her sass and sneer, rose to standing, then stomped on the shovel head; the handle jerked upwards into her palm. I don’t mind dirty.

Sho chuckled, but the grey cloud dimming his vibrant black irises betrayed his hunger. Tennessee gripped her samurai by his jacket collar, luring him off demon territory and into Riggy. She drove until her hands grew warm under Sho’s indulgent gaze.

No demons here. She pulled onto the frosted shoulder. Breakfast? Her laidback smile was coaxing enough.

Sho ran a rough hand over Tennessee’s cheek, enthralled by her naturally nurturing ways. He had never been cared for like that, and he was hungry, had been all night. But she was tired, and he would never ask.

It was early, not yet sunrise, but their kiss was meant for the cover of night.

Lost in their little victory, Tennessee gave Sho some of her regret, worry, and fatigue, and he took her crankiness, even if she didn’t want him to.

She never asked him why, but he tasted of salted chocolate no matter the time of day or night. It was the perfect flavor for him. His peaceful demeanor and majestic presence had everyone in Saint James talking. She let them talk. This samurai was all hers.

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Tennessee was the fairest master Sho ever had. For that reason and so many more, feeding on her unhappiness, while delicious and nourishing, crushed the man, wrecked him in ways she’d never know. Her emotional ramblings were always fresh on his tongue, an addiction his life depended on.

Damn Empress Zaada and her twisted demon mind for conceiving of such a monstrous arrangement. As if claiming Tennessee as her champion to rid Earth of Ibrahim’s demons wasn’t torturous enough, the empress slapped a sentient iron collar around Tennessee’s neck and another collar around Sho’s then linked the two with an iron chain. Zaada called it a bond, but Sho knew better. They were enslaved. Tennessee’s anguish fed their symbiotic tether; her grief and misery sustained him; her soul acted as his soul until he earned his own.

For millennia, the keeper existed to serve the wrangler, to protect her, and heal her. His kind were bred for this; serving brought the family line great honor. Sure, it was a curse, but he didn’t see it like that. Even if he wasn’t chained to Tennessee and required to stay within fifty feet of her when visible in her realm, he’d want to.

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After a day job of boxing dead people, Tennessee relished the drive to The Jims’ rambling, spectacularly tended estate. She missed the solitude of her renovated silo, not just the modern, pioneer charm her landlords designed into it, but the actual space. Living in a circle calmed her; the tidy box of an apartment over the Englands’ mortuary didn’t. And the brisk walk up the mortuary stairs just wasn’t giving her the cleanse she craved.

But Tennessee blew past the turnoff to the silo.

Sho watched the road blur by. "Ten, perhaps you should stay at the silo more often. A break from all your jobs…and me…will no doubt reduce crankiness."

There’s that word again! She gunned the gas. She hadn’t slept well in weeks. What the hell did they expect? "You’ll poof at the silo…what’s the point in having a pretend boyfriend if I can’t even see him? So, unless you can stick around without something dead nearby or someone about to die nearby…the shop’s the smartest option. She shot him a glare, Unless…unless you want a break from me?"

He gripped her hand in earnest. "We only work if you find balance, Ten. The silo makes you happy. I want you happy."

Zaada’s goddamn curse is making me cranky, Sho. Not you.

Tennessee wasn’t a selfish person; at least, she didn’t see herself as one, not until this very moment. Sho existed to protect her, but he couldn’t do that if he was invisible. Every time he returned from a poof, his anxiety drummed in her chest. Watching her walk among demons, unprotected, left her samurai in a rare state of helplessness, which actually made him cranky.

But all she had been thinking about was her previous life, her own comfort, her. She was keeping her lease on the silo because she needed the option of that refuge. But practicality demanded some sacrifice. She’d stay at the shop with Sho.

We stick together. Stumpy’s is ground zero and we need to be ready for whatever the hell they’re planning. Let me figure out how to swing paying two rent bills, you just help me through it, you know, snack on my cranky… She gnashed her teeth into her lower lip.

Sho’s reserved grin deepened his natural rasp. "I was rather hungry last night."

And I had a crick in my neck. Tennessee smacked Sho’s chest. You scratch my back…blah blah blah…

Bound by the curse to do anything his master commanded, Sho scratched Tennessee’s back, his easy gaze on the road ahead.

She giggled. You’re so literal.

Sho was smart, caught on to the misunderstanding, but he was also acutely aware of the curative energy flowing from his touch to her flesh, so he continued the gentle caresses up and down her back.

I called the crew. She took a wild curve, eyes on Sho. It’s moving in day! We need reinforcements to get all that furniture up to the apartment. Oh, and I got us some paint. Don’t get me wrong, eighties neon is totally rad, but you seem more of a beige man to me.

Sho grinned. If I were a man…

Oh, honey, there’s no doubt. Tennessee laughed. And I bought you a new bed. Can’t have you sleeping on my flimsy twin in my old room.

Another selfless act from Tennessee England.

Demons better be on vacay, Tennessee declared merrily. "I’m done being nice!"

2

Rewind

Ahuge, russet brown man loitered in the mortuary parking lot next to his battered van, his noble fro tucked into a work-ready knot.

Godzilla, my man, I need your brawn! Tennessee shouted out the window as she skidded Riggy next to the beat-up van.

Godzilla jerked his head up, lifting his chin in his go-to salutation.

The big guy stalked the beachside lot, inspecting the crumbling cathedral stone, single-pane windows, splintered doors, alternate points of entry and such. They still didn’t know how someone broke into the shop, cremated a dog named Dave, or why they made it look like they’d killed Tennessee’s dog, Polar. But he was sure as hell going to figure it out.

A colossal, messy-haired, lion-maned, white mass of a beast barreled up the sandy dunes, bounded over thickets of beach grass, nearly toppling Tennessee with super wet kisses and whams of his enormous paws.

Missed you too, boy!

Sho rounded the hearse, watching Polar greet his master. The albino Tibetan Mastiff was a superb guardian, the most faithful of any animal protector he had ever worked with in his thousand-plus years as a keeper. It wasn’t always the case; many animals turned or succumbed to the temptations of a sweeter master. Polar didn’t. He survived his abduction intact with zero patience for anyone other than those already known to him.

The abduction changed Tennessee too. She coddled the beast, cooked him chicken and rice, let him eat on her bed, took him everywhere, except Stumpy’s—too many demons. Polar lapped up the attention, as he did right now.

Okay, boy, let’s get you some breakfast.

Her words put a smile on Sho’s face. He was still full of her; he never said, but she tasted of sugar cookies and spiced apple cider. It made him chuckle. She was sugar and spice.

Godzilla threw open the van’s loading doors.

Who you got for me? Tennessee tossed her keys in her hand until the right one shook loose. Polar raced in first. Sho stayed back to help Godzilla. She didn’t have to count steps as much as before; the visual distance of under fifty feet had cemented in her brain nicely. The collar shocking her if they strayed too far apart worked remarkably well, too.

Godzilla double-checked his clipboard; it was an odd name. A Mrs. Flowerday. Drowned in tub.

Another one? Tennessee wandered back to Godzilla, snatched the clipboard from his bear-like hand. She flipped pages, skimmed, flipped. Like Mr. Gloor...

The name reminded Sho of something; he jogged to Riggy, grabbed an urn, jogged back.

Godzilla’s tight gaze and pursed lips had Tennessee defending her highly unusual, and possibly immoral, actions.

"What do you want from me, man? I explained this…Sho poofs unless we have something dead nearby, okay? She slammed the clipboard on Godzilla’s round but hard belly. I was only borrowing Mr. Gloor. He had a nice drive. Enjoyed himself immensely!"

Godzilla dislodged an L-shaped iron tool from his jacket pocket, eyeing Tennessee while he used the church key to unlock the legs on the rickety transport gurney. "Like you borrowed Maria Garcia."

Tennessee flinched. Dang, that was low. She knew Godzilla had her back, but ever since she lost Maria he wasn’t his usual chill. He’d worked odd jobs for Maria, as he did for half the town, but it went deeper; she was his friend. Losing her body was not something he was going to forgive easily. Maria deserved to rest in peace, like her mother before her.

Still, it wasn’t Tennessee’s fault the dead woman woke up all zombified and freaked out and ran off into the forest. Come on, who could have anticipated that?

I’ll find her. Tennessee slipped into the shop as the boys unloaded Flowerday.

The mortuary was old, overly furnished, eclectically decorated, but spotless, with perfumed hints of cinnamon and baked apple pie. The arrangement was informal: office, prep room, and crematory on the left, casket showroom and themed chapels on the right. Refreshment counter dead center. Tennessee tossed Polar a stale pastry before starting a pot of coffee.

"We’ll find her, boy. You and me."

"And me," Sho announced, holding open the door as Godzilla wheeled in the gurney mounded with a black body bag.

"And me, Godzilla promised. His eyes were softer, a little apology in there. You get it right, Ness? She shouldn’t be out there all alone…she’s probably scared shitless."

I got you, big guy. Tennessee tossed Godzilla a pre-packaged Danish. "But she’s the scary one, okay. We’ll search the woods later today. Polar’s got her scent…he’s been sleeping with the pillow from her casket…"

She watched the men crunch their faces, then laughed. Yeah, dogs are weird. Anyway, we’d have heard by now if she wandered into town. Maybe she’s scaring away the demons. It’s been awfully quiet on that end too.

Godzilla shot Tennessee a wide-eyed look. He hadn’t actually seen a demon yet. Didn’t really want to.

Despite worrying for her best friend’s safety, she was glad Godzilla was on board. She needed someone human on her side. She wanted to tell her other best friend, Lin, but Zaada’s curse prevented her from telling anyone about her demon-wrangling pursuits. But if they happen to show up mid-battle, well, problem solved. She couldn’t answer half of Godzilla’s freaked-out questions; she was a newbie too. The only person who seemed to have a handle on this supernatural stuff was Hill, the town’s oldest spinster, storage facility owner, preeminent auctioneer, and Tennessee’s godmother. But even after she dragged Godzilla to Hill’s, the old lady would only say, There’s no one way, Nessie. Find yours.

All Tennessee could say to that was, Gee, Hill, thanks.

Godzilla slammed another pastry in one gulp. Damn, Ness, I still can’t believe we got demons in town.

Me neither, man. Tennessee grabbed the coffee carafe mid-brew. Sucks, huh. She poured the inch of concentrated caffeine into her cup. Sho grinned at her impatience as she dumped in nearly a fourth cup of sugar. Flowerday bought the full workup. Time to sharpen my trocar.

What weapon is this trocar? Sho’s eagerness had Tennessee giddy to explain.

No man, Godzilla whacked Sho with his clipboard, it’s the drain spike she uses to empty a body of all its juices. Godzilla cinched his furry brow. You know, it might work as a demon drain…if you had nothing else.

Tennessee pursed her lips. That’d be rad…I used a screwdriver this morning.

Hell yeah! Godzilla whacked Tennessee with his clipboard. She tripped off balance, and the boys laughed.

Oh, ha ha…okay, doofuses, who’s gonna assist?

Me! Sho raised his hand, a keen student of life. I wish to learn about these modern methods of burial. In my time, we dug a hole.

Godzilla rumpled a snarl. Dug a hole, huh? Sounds…cold, bro.

It was a good hole, dug with great honor.

That actually sounds perfect. Tennessee longed for such simplicity.

Why do you drain the body? Sho asked.

Oh, you know… Tennessee floundered; that was a huge philosophical question right there. "Technically, we don’t have to, and I don’t always. Only if they ask for it. We used to do it your way, Sho. Then embalming exploded in popularity following the Civil War. Families wanted to see their sons and daughters one last time, as close to how they had been when they left. Maybe I’ll advertise more natural burials..."

Oh, here we go. Godzilla slapped Sho’s back. The green burial rant.

Dude! The future’s totally in aquamation, human composting, and even mushroom suits. Embalming’s incredibly toxic…for the Earth, hell, even for morticians.

Sho asked pointedly, "What do you prefer?"

She gulped coffee. I like your way. I like Flowerday’s way. I like whatever gives comfort to the dead and those left behind.

She wants a sky burial. Godzilla boomed. She’s a rebel, bro. A total death nerd.

Tennessee chuckled. "Whatever, man, things evolve is all I’m saying. Latest stats show embalmings are down, cremations up. People think it’s cleaner, better for the environment. But it’s not. And it takes three washes just to get all the dust out of my hair."

The front door jangled open. What’s this about hair? An elfin lady with elegant features of a timeless East stormed into the shop, her tone loud and large. You’ve missed your last two appointments, and I’m right across the street! Zooming in on Tennessee’s current style—an air-dried frizz scooped up in a lopsided pony—suppressed Lin’s perfect English. She unleashed her every-Asian play accent to chuckles and giggles. You ugly, Ness! I tell to you, ugly no good for business! Lin’s angry-Asian rant continued all the way into the prep room, but that’s where it ended.

Everyone always got quiet inside the body prep room. Put a dead body in a room and a person’s truth gleams. The silver and white simplicity of the room ushered in a sort of reverence for the art. Two hydraulic embalming tables butted up against two deep sinks, and shelving units lined the back wall, right beside a line of six body coolers. Mister liked things clean and cold. Clutter confused matters, and there was nothing confusing about death.

Tennessee whipped open a dinky, square window; she propped back the vertical plastic slats with a rickety standing lamp. A crisp, briny wind swept in, jolting her on full alert. She knew everything about dead bodies gave Lin a wiggly gut, except fixing their hair. Fresh air usually helped.

Despite her squeamishness, Lin assisted Tennessee sometimes, considered it educational. Stanford had stoked Lin’s curiosity, conditioning her to periodically test her nerve to stay mentally sharp. And there was nothing more fascinating and unnerving than the death care industry. Lin snatched Godzilla’s clipboard, perusing notes on Flowerday’s untimely demise.

Ten, Sho still had Mr. Gloor tucked under his arm, I’ll just… He motioned toward the crematory.

Tennessee nodded her understanding. She needed to stay in the prep room, to remain within those pesky fifty feet while Sho stored away Mr. Gloor’s urn for safekeeping. Can’t have unclaimed remains floating about. Her gaze fell on Lin; she hated lying to her best friend. Lying to Phillip was