Page 1 of Secondhand Soul

Chapter One: Lazarus

November, 2025

I hate people. People are evil.

I’m people-shaped, but people will tell you I am not one of them—if they could ever see me clearly. They’d see gray skin, all stitched and stapled and stitched again. Eyes that glow an iridescent green, a shade of green caused by magic and chemicals, not nature. Then there are the teeth. Ain’t no one looking past these sharp, shark-like beasts. They used to be normal. The one fucking thing that was normal about my face, and the fuckers who made me wrecked it, chiseling and grinding the teeth in this dead man’s head into diamond-hard points.

“Lazarus, we have an appointment with the social worker.” Manny slaps my back as he comes past me in the garage where we work.

Manny is like me. He’s the reason I exist, actually. Back in the olden days, there was this messed-up dude named Frankenstein ( I don’t know if that’s actually his name, or if that’s just what people call him because of that writer chick who fictionalized an account of his mad scientist shenanigans). He wanted to play God, and he made himself a patchwork human out of dead people. Not only that, but he did it twice, because his “creation” needed a “mate.”

And you know what? Manny turned out all right. His bride, Rhea, turned out all right. Oh, not right away. It was messy at first, and they were apart after some major doom and gloom. He immigrated to America, worked in bicycle repair, then auto repair, and opened his own little garage (which also does car rentals now, and sales, and is the town’s little gas station). Rhea stayed in Europe, saw the world like an observer, like a guardian angel, and became one of the best photographers around.

They still found their way back to each other. Why?

Soulmates. Made for each other. The crap I would call crap for anyone else but them. For them, I believe it.

After a century and a half, they’re living a nice little suburban life in Pine Ridge, New York. They run the used car lot-slash-auto repair shop (that also does rentals and pumps gas, like I said). Rhea has a side gig where she does photography for weddings and babies.

Normal undead patchwork people, productive citizens. Nice people.

Sometimes it makes me crazy that they can be just like me and not like me at all.

“Lazarus? Did you hear me?”

Manny looks worried as he stands next to me, so much bigger than me. I think Dr. F thought he needed a big chassis to run his 50,000 volts through. Me?

I was made by a sick crime boss who wanted a hitman who wouldn’t die on him. One that he could shoot in the face and sew back up when he was done being angry.

Yeah, Dr. F made a man to prove he could conquer death. Mafia boss Vince Pazcuso made me to deliver it.

Guess what? I don’t like following rules like that. I don’t like following rules from anyone—except maybe Manny and Rhea, and only because I like them. When I left the California CrossRealms (basically Hell’s waiting room) and came to Pine Ridge, they spotted me living in the cemetery and immediately scooped me up like their long-lost son.

I hate to admit it, but being loved by them is the one thing I like about life. That, and menthols. What? Don’t you dare tell me I can’t smoke. I’m not getting any deader, okay?

So. I hate people, but I like the people-shaped couple who’ve survived in this hellscape called life for longer than me and still act like this world is worth saving. They may have “adopted” me, but they deserve a chance to have a real family. To raise a little kid who hasn’t already seen people get butchered and had his arm chopped off and sewn back on for not participating as instructed.

They deserve some sweet, innocent little bundle to love and protect, not some old wreck without a soul to put back together. I’m not quite three years old, but that’s the “sum” of my parts, meaning that’s how long this body was stitched, built, and subjected to “training.” I have no idea who I’m made from or how old they were. Remembering how Pascuzo likes to deal with traitors and narcs, I imagine my bloodline isn’t anything great.

I don’t even have a soul. Somehow... Manny and Rhea have theirs. I can’t feel mine. Can’t find me in all these bits of others.

But aren’t all of them me? Now, at this point, when I run the show, and these parts all move on my command, and fight the same things, you’d think so.

It’s why I like whiskey, too. “When you drink, you don’t have to think.” That’s my motto.

No, Manny and Rhea deserve to raise someone who can love them back. Someone who has time to develop good qualities, not just vices.

“Laz? Lazarus, are you all right?” Manny’s deep voice is getting worried.

I smile and run a greasy hand through my unnaturally silver-white hair. “Social worker visit? Is this more paperwork stuff? Now? The night before Thanksgiving?”

Manny’s serious face cracks into a huge grin, and it strikes me that he reminds me of that guy from that old television show. The Cheddars? The Muensters? No, The Munsters! A big, goofy grin and a deep, comical chuckle come from that massive, scary body that’s all stitched and sewn like mine, more greenish than gray, unlike Rhea, who is so gorgeous with her lily-white white complexion and her ocean of long, dark hair.

Shut up. I’ve got eyes. I notice things, even though I’d never notice them for myself. I’m dead-ish, but my hormones still work—unfortunately.

“This isn’t just paperwork, Lazarus! There’s a woman in Ohio who wants to place her child for adoption. The baby may have special medical needs, as she’s likely to have preterm labor. The social worker is traveling for the holidays, but she’s agreed to meet with the mother and us near Pittsburgh tomorrow morning, first thing. It’s kind of urgent, since she could go into labor at any time.”

My heart—or whatever it is, probably my brain (used, only one owner)—is baffled. “But that kid might die, right?”