Page 14 of Bitter’s Sweet

They came for Raven.

A woman in the front row sobs into a red handkerchief that looks like it came off this biker’s head, while another woman beside her whispers, “He looks so good.”

And he does.

That is the strangest part.

He looks darn good.

Not alive. I ain’t crazy. There’s a waxy stillness to him no amount of stagecraft can fully suppress, and the air around him has that cool, chemical bite funeral homes always have, all flowers and polish, something pretending not to be death.

But whoever did his face knew exactly what they were doing.

Man’s beard is trimmed nice. His skin has color without looking painted on. His lips are set with the faintest curve, almost like he is proud he managed to get one last ride out of everybody. His hair is combed back under a red bandana. Even the tattoos on his hands have been cleaned and moisturized so the ink shows bold under a mess of silver rings.

He looks like a biker who gave very specific instructions and got every last one followed. The grieving woman rises, takes a cigarette and places it between his lips. It stays like someone made a spot for it. That’s talent, all right.

A small thrill runs through me. Not fear. Not disgust. Pure excitement. I probably should be worried about that.

“You the new girl?”

The voice comes from my right, low and smoky as woodstove heat. I turn and find a woman leaning against the wall beneath a framed photograph of a hearse with hot rod flames painted on the side. She’s probably in her fifties, maybe sixties, but in the way some women get when age sharpens them instead of softening them. Her long hair is silver-white and pinned high with two black lacquer sticks. She wears a fitted black dress, red lipstick, cat-eye glasses on a chain, and black heeled boots with silver skull buckles.

She looks like a funeral director, a beauty queen, and a witch had a family reunion and she was voted most likely to hide the body.

“Yes, ma’am,” I whisper.

Her gaze drops to my yellow cardigan, my floral dress, and my pink flats.

One eyebrow lifts.

Lord, I know what she sees. She sees sunshine. She sees a girl who packs snacks in her purse, says excuse me in grocery store aisles, and owns more lip gloss than weapons. She sees the sort of woman people underestimate right before they tell her too much.

I smile anyway. Lord knows I always do.

Her mouth twitches. “You lost, sugar?”

“I sure as hell hope not. I’m here for the cosmetology program.”

“The living kind or the dead kind?”

“Dead kind.”

Now both eyebrows lift. “You sure about that, honey?”

I glance past her to the dead biker on his Harley while the preacher says something about dust and ashes and open roads. “I’m sure.”

She studies me for another second, then pushes away from the wall. “Well, ain’t you a daisy growing out of a grave crack.”

“Thank you?”

“It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but you took it sweet, so we’ll let it be one.” She holds out her hand, pale and elegant as a funeral lily. “Mercy Duvall. I run the school, manage restoration when the boys bring me something that needs more than prayer, and keep this place from turning into a full-blown circus.”

I shake her hand. Her grip is dry, firm, and surprisingly warm.

“I’m glad to meet you, Ms. Duvall.”

“Miss Mercy. Around here, if someone calls me Ms. Duvall, they either owe me money or came with a warrant.”