Page 67 of Secondhand Soul

Manny doesn’t even miss a beat. “Not all the other kiddies, Laz. Victoria’s going to be there.”

Victoria. Ooh. Images of my favorite—and completely complicated—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.

It’s not her fault you’re not, a little voice protests.

Yes, it is! She came here to kill me, remember?

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

“Victoria’s lonely. I don’t think she’d go 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 flat things 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 stay in the 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. If I tore him apart, Rhea would probably stitch him back together. Some people call us revenants.

We’re more like remnants. Made of scraps. When I see our skin together, I can’t help but wonder why he’s greenish, while 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. Stop acting like you have to help me. Care about me.

But I don’t say that, because some empty part of me wishes he was, and more and more now, I’m beginning to understand that he wishes it were true, too.

“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.

“Please, honey?” Rhea strokes my arm in a motherly fashion.

“I’ll go,” I mutter. Yep. Anything Rhea asks for is officially my weakness. Want the moon moved a little to the left? Have Rhea ask me. It’d get done.

“Good. You know, I think she’s sweet on you. I know what you’ve been going through, but—”

“What would make you think that the woman they sent to kill me likes me?” I demand, even though we’ve had this talk before, and even though I know that the last time Victoria was with me—she kissed me like she wanted that liplock to go on forever. “We’ve been avoiding each other like the plague for the last two weeks.” Except when we haven’t. Except when we do stupid plans in the graveyard, or when I try to see her through the library windows, or when I run to the grocery store on lunch just to stare at the spot where her car is parked.

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.