"A good idea?" she repeated. "Maybe next time try 'Hey, Tess, let me help you with the giant dead man trying to kill you.' "
"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but he's not dead. Thank God," Deacon said calmly. "We thought he was, which is why we put him here. And he's not trying to kill you. He doesn't know what he's doing. It's just the body's natural reaction."
He'd said more to her in the last thirty seconds than he had in the last couple of years, and the closer he came the more worried she got. He didn't look like her savior. He looked more like the Angel of Death. His dark hair was pulled back into a stubby tail at the base of his neck and his eyes were the iciest of blues. His skin was bronzed due to the fact he spent a great deal of time outdoors. He was built like a laborer instead of someone who spent all his time in a gym, though she knew he did that too. But when she looked at him, all she saw was . . . man. His jaw was angular and his lips-sweet Jesus-his lips were the kind that could tempt anyone to stray from well-laid plans.
She wasn't sure which man she should be dodging, but it seemed like a good sign that Deacon was removing the hand from her wrist instead of trying to strangle her. She cradled her wrist as soon as it was free, and flexed her fingers. Nothing was broken, but she was going to be sore and bruised for a few days.
"Thanks," she said and watched as Deacon pushed the man back down on the table. He took a syringe from his pocket and tossed the cap aside before sliding it beneath the man's skin and pressing down the plunger.
"Umm . . . what the hell is going on here? Do you always carry syringes in your pocket? That seems dangerous."
She was babbling, but that's what she did when she was nervous. It didn't seem to matter though, because Deacon's full attention was on the man on her table. Almost immediately, the seizure stopped and the man's body went slack. He no longer had the grayish hue of the dead.
Deacon put two fingers at the man's neck and felt for a pulse. Tess was guessing he must've found one, because he dropped his hand and nodded with satisfaction.
"Now that you know your boy is alive, can you answer my questions?" she asked.
He looked at her, his eyes piercing, but he didn't answer.
"Hello?" she said. "I'm talking to you, Valhalla," she said, cradling her wrist as she rose slowly to her feet.
"You need to get some ice on that," he said.
"No shit. A dead guy just latched onto me like I was his last meal."
"You're being dramatic. It's not like he was trying to eat you. It was just an automatic reflex. It happens."
"No, it doesn't," she said incredulously. "And I should know because I see some pretty strange stuff." She took a couple of steps toward him and his eyes widened the closer she got. "Do dead guys in your world normally sit up and start breathing again too?"
He shrugged and looked down at his watch, as if he'd already given her too much of his time. "It can happen."
"No!" She seethed. "When someone dies, they usually stay dead. I've had it with you people. I want to know what the hell is going on around here. You guys swoop in like Satan's army and make camp in Last Stop like it makes sense, when it doesn't make any sense at all. A funeral home of this size doesn't need five full-time employees. It's ridiculous. You'd be of better use figuring out why the pipes rattle in my bathroom or whether or not the floor is rotting in front of my fireplace." She paused to take a breath, but not for long. "I have nightmares about falling straight through to the bottom floor."
"I can fix your floor," he offered. "And the pipes."
"Really?" she asked, losing her train of thought. "Because that would be great. I didn't get upgraded like the rest of the place. I'm in steerage."
His lips quirked and she felt a small victory. She could count the number of times she'd seen him smile on one hand.
"Anyway, thanks for the flooring offer. I'll take you up on it. But that's not my point. My point is random dead guys don't just show up out of the middle of nowhere. And people don't just bring them back to life."
"Isn't that what doctors do?" he asked.
She narrowed her eyes and put fists at her hips. "Don't be deliberately obtuse. And you're not a doctor."
"How do you know?" he asked. "You don't know anything about me."
She stared at him blankly for a second and realized he was right. "Are you a doctor?"
"No, but I could be."
She growled and he full-out grinned this time. Apparently her temper was entertaining.
"I'm in charge here. What I know is that you or one of the others took the transport van out in the middle of the night, without letting me know I might add, and you came back with a body and no paperwork."