Page 25

Starring Lazarus and Victoria from Secondhand Soul and Manny and Rhea from Monsters, Marriage, and Mistletoe

“ L azarus. Lazarus, come back here and listen like a man instead of a three-year-old." Manny leaves the service office and chases me into the stockroom.

“Hey, there's only a little bit more than that on my clock, but I'm never going to get any older, am I?” I wear a bitter smile and come to a halt, not because my boss told me to, but because I’m where I want to be, in front of the oil filter shelves.

“Sweet Jesus, not this again. We play the hand we're dealt, kid. You got out of California and came here for a better life, and everyone has welcomed you with open arms. Rhea! Rhea, will you come talk to your son?"

I bite my tongue. Manny and Rhea adopted me on sight.

When I escaped from the demented mobster and his sorcery-happy henchmen, I never imagined I’d find anyone else in the world who looked like me, or who knew what it was like to be “made” instead of born.

Even if I wanted to snap, “You’re not my parents!

” I would never do that to the beautiful “Bride of Frankenstein” rushing toward me.

“Sweetie, you shouldn’t even try to have this conversation on an empty stomach.

Both of you get cranky when you’re hungry.

” Rhea passes through the shop and straightens my wild white hair—which instantly resists her touch and goes right back to an untidy mess that makes me look like I’ve been electrified (shocker) and gives me Goblin King vibes.

“This isn’t about being hungry!” I call out, but Rhea’s already heading back to the tiny little galley kitchen behind the service office.

“What is it about?” Manny asks.

“I don’t want to be around all of those people. All of the fa-la-la-la-losers who get together with strangers and celebrate.”

“Once you meet people, they stop being strangers,” he points out.

“Ha ha, very profound.” But it is kinda true.

“Victoria’s going to be there.”

Victoria. Ooh. Images of the leggy brunette slide into place faster than they should. Dark hair. Dark soul. The only person in this town outside of Manny and Rhea who might even be considered my friend—when we’re speaking to each other.

“You save one little assassin from an open grave, and suddenly everyone thinks you’re pals,” I mutter, shelving oil filters.

The thing is, I was made to be an assassin myself, and I’m trying to be a nice guy—at least to Manny and Rhea, because I like them and they’re like family. And they gave me a job.

And I fucking caught their oven on fire on Thanksgiving morning.

“Victoria’s lonely. I don’t think she’d come except Rhea talked her into it.” Manny stands next to me, clipboard in hand.

“We have all of this organized in the system. Don’t try to fool me with the old clipboard routine.”

“You could at least try to bring something to the library Christmas party. Something that doesn’t require baking.”

“It’s a cookie exchange, isn’t it?” I growl.

“Well... Partially?”

“So I should have cookies. If I did this. Which I won’t. Because I just have one of those little two-burner flats in my place, and baking means ovens. Before you offer, no. I will not use your oven. Ever. Not after the great squash fire.”

Manny rolls his eyes. “If you’d stop living in that old crypt and get an apartment—”

“I’m a dead thing, Manny. I’m supposed to live in a crypt.”

Manny’s gray-green hand lands on my wrist. I was trained to attack at such a gesture. To rip that arm off.

But he’s just like me. Some people call us revenants. Made of scraps. I’m more of a chalky gray, or a clay gray. Maybe I was made of different kinds of scraps, or maybe the preservation techniques have gotten better since he was made.

You’re not my dad , I want to tell him. You couldn’t be.

But I don’t say that, because some empty part of me wishes he was.

“We live. We love. We work. We play. We eat. Some of us bake.” Manny smiles at me like he didn’t just see the flash of violence in my eyes. Maybe he did. The main thing is that he saw it vanish, too.

“Let’s put it another way. The sickos who made me and sent Victoria after me will try again one day.

I don’t want them to have an address to trace me to.

I shouldn’t even be working. Shouldn’t even be staying in one place.

” When I see the genuine worry in Manny’s eyes, I quickly add, “But I will. Because this is the best place in the world for a monster to have a good life, doing good things... like fixing cars.”

“And going to the Christmas party—even if they don’t bring anything. Just go. So Victoria won’t be lonely.”

Neither of us points out that his argument is dumb. It’ll be full of people. She shouldn’t be lonely if it’s full of people, and it shouldn’t matter if I go or not.

“I’ll go,” I mutter.

“Good. You know, I think she’s sweet on you.”

“What would make you think that the woman they sent to kill me likes me?” I demand.

Manny’s chuckle is so smug, it makes me want to pop him one with a lug wrench. Not like it would hurt him. Much.

“Well, son, mainly because she hasn’t killed you. Hasn’t even tried since the first time.”

“And that’s flirting?” I scoff, but in my mind I’m wondering if... Yeah. Yeah, for a woman like Victoria, maybe that’s flirting.

And me not actively hating her guts is flirting back.

I’ll go... and I’ll figure out how to make her some damn cookies, even if I have to cook them one at a time in my frying pan.

“I don’t know what she’d even like, Manny. If I make something, I’m not doing it for the rest of these happy, shiny people. I’m doing it for her.”

“Women seem to like chocolate. Chocolate with something. Chocolate and peanut butter, chocolate and raspberry, chocolate and mint, chocolate and caramel. In my experience, chocolate with mint is the biggest gamble, and chocolate and peanut butter is the sure thing.”

“How much time with women have you clocked, old man?” I tease, and then I feel like shit, because Manny and Rhea were literally made as a set, and they were separated for over a century before finding their way together again.

“Two years of married bliss, plus a couple weeks. But I’ve also been around happy couples and in the candy aisles enough to know what’s what.”

“You’re right. Well. Uh. I’m going to figure it out. Nothing like a problem to solve to keep me out of trouble.”

“You can go to the library and check out cookbooks.”

“Yep.”

When Manny leaves, I just pull out my phone and search recipes instead. Libraries are for old people.

I smirk, because if I said that to the hot Latina MILF who runs the library, she’d hit me with a reshelving cart.

“Cookies you don’t have to bake.”

Healthy raw crap with coconut oil and chopped cashews comes up.

Ughhhhhh.

“You’re a man of science.” Rhea comes out to the shop and puts a sandwich down in front of me.

My frown turns to a soft smile. “Thanks. I was going to go to the coffee shop.”

“You don’t have to. I cook for my boys. Well... I stick bread together.” She ruffles my white hair. I don’t know why my hair is white, and Manny’s is black, and hers is black with thick white streaks.

“For a man of science, there’s a lot of stuff I don’t know,” I grumble.

“Sometimes, it’s okay to be a man of faith. To take a leap. Or ask for a push in the right direction.”

I nod. The only thing that makes me a man of science was that I was put together by a crazy-ass doctor who also had fucked-up warlock sidekick on the payroll to bring his sewing projects to life.

“You know how you were made for Manny?” I say, and I wish I hadn’t. Rhea goes stiff right away. They don’t like to think about the man who made them.

“Yes.”

“Sorry, but... I killed my doctor before he could make another one of me... whatever I am. Maybe he was making me a bride. What if I’ll always be alone now?

I’ll never have—what you have.” I hurriedly take a bite of the BBLT (beef bacon, lettuce, and tomato) she made, hoping that if I swallow enough, this sudden lump in my throat will leave me.

“They were not making mates, honey. They were making death machines. You saved someone a life of pain and self-torment, and that means the woman for you is out there, somewhere. You know, in a way... wasn’t Victoria sent after you to ‘make you pay’ for going rogue and killing that mobster’s underlings? ”

“Pazcuso’s head doctor and his dark arts dude. Yep.”

“So in a way, she wasn’t made for you, but she was sent to you. You were still matched up, weren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Stubborn boy. Tell you what—I know a stovetop cookie recipe.”

“I want to figure this out by myself,” I lash out.

Rhea doesn’t even change expressions. “So, like I was saying, I have this recipe. I’ll give you the ingredients and lend you a pot and some cookie sheets. You figure it out. I’ll taste test.”

“I shouldn’t agree to that last part. They might be little lumps of burnt rubber.”

“Only if you cook the spatula, Laz. I’ll run home, get it together, and bring it here before work lets out for the day. You have a couple of days before the party to get it right.”

Three jars of peanut butter, seventy-six burns, and one new cookie sheet later...

“These are so good.” Manny shovels a second one into his mouth.

Rhea takes a third. “Delicious! Different than my recipe. I think you added more vanilla, and I love it.

“We need to stop eating these,” Manny groans, reaching for a third.

“I have seven batches. Some more awful than others,” I admit, chuckling as Rhea smacks her husband’s hand away as he goes in for a fourth.

There’s pride in my voice as I slip him another one. “They’re addictive as f—”

“Language!” Rhea hisses. “Stop that, Manny. We need to save some for—Victoria!”

“Well, maybe I made them with her in mind, but I guess I have to put it on the table for everyone to try,” I say.

“Um. Hi. I was wondering if you have wiper blades? It’s starting to sleet, and one of my blades is just dragging and streaking.”

I whirl so fast that cookies go skidding off the plate. Manny catches them like a star outfielder, and they disappear into his mouth. “Victoria!” I gasp.

“Told you,” Rhea mutters.

Victoria smiles. She’s in a slinky little black dress. Dressed up for this Christmas party.

“Uhhh... You know what, I’m sure I do. But I don’t want you two to be late for the Christmas party.” Manny takes his keys from his pocket and passes them to me. “Take my truck, and we’ll bring over Victoria’s car when I get the blade on. Won’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she protests softly, eyes wide.

“It’s no trouble, and it’s getting slick out there,” Rhea urges, her hand out for Victoria’s keys, which she slowly hands over. “You two run along. Lazarus, wrap those cookies up tight—after Victoria tries one. Victoria, Lazarus made these himself. They’re divine.”

“He can bake?” One smooth brow arches, and she tentatively walks over and takes one of the cookies.

I watch the way her mouth closes over the first bite and...

I swallow hard, pointed canines digging into the inside of my lip. Victoria was there during the great squash fire. In fact, I blame her for it—at least, partially.

“Amazing,” she praises, the tiniest smile on her lips, but real light in her eyes.

“He made them because he knew you would be there,” Manny says, because he has no idea how uncool and overeager that makes me sound.

But the tiny smile turns into a big one, and the little light becomes a high-intensity beam. “You did?”

I wave the accomplishment away like it’s something I do every day. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to think that I’m a total screw up in the kitchen. I can cook, not just set an oven on fire.”

“I’d love the recipe for these.” She takes another one.

Another one! There’s a victory parade in my head. “No problem. I’ll write it down for you.”

“Hurry up, kids. Hungry people, eggnog, and mistletoe await,” Rhea urges.

I scowl. Victoria nods, expression flat—but she’s going to ride in Manny’s truck with me.

“Brings back memories,” she says.

I saved her life in this truck—not knowing she was there to end mine. “Seems like old times. Here, hold the cookies?”

She puts them on her lap after she climbs in, long, long legs crossed at the ankles.

I try to act like I’m just making sure the cookies are secure. “Got ‘em?”

“You’ll have to pry these things out of my cold, dead hands.”

I flex mine. “Join the club. I’m actually sort of room temperature.” I put us in drive and carefully ease out on the streets, following a salt truck as it swooshes by.

“Room temperature hands?”

“Or warmer. Not just my hands. Everywhere.” I don’t know why I tell her that.

“That’s good to know,” she says, and my mind goes to stupid places. I need a distraction. “Pass me a cookie?”

“Keep your hands on the wheel. I don’t want to die going to this dumb party,” she murmurs, and pops the cookie in my mouth, letting her fingers brush over my lower lip for the slightest second.

“We could go somewhere else? Get a drink? I don’t want to deck the halls with the squeaky clean suburbanites, either.”

“We have to go. Your family has my car.”

“They’re not my... You’re right. They do.”

Victoria deliberately takes another cookie and bites into it, a little chuckle of pleasure following her first bite. “If I’m there, and you’re there, it’s not just squeaky clean types.”

She makes me smile, not just a fake smile, or a begrudging smile, but something real. She touches the dark part of me and doesn’t back away. “Here’s to Christmas with the criminals.”

“I’ll drink to that... Say, tomorrow night?”

“Sounds good.”