The Wicked City. Megan Morgan

wasn’t cracked enough to snatch a body.

      “Why do you have it?” June asked. “We don’t need a gun.”

      The whimpering aged gentleman on his knees next to Cindy probably welcomed this news but clearly was no less frightened, as Cindy had the muzzle pressed against his temple. The man wore a handsome silk robe with wide lapels, the kind rich guys sported in movies. Were all funeral directors so dashing in their choice of nightclothes?

      “I brought it just in case,” Cindy said.

      “Why would we need to shoot someone in a funeral home?” June raised her voice, no longer worried about being quiet. The director had probably heard them clamoring through the window at the rear of the house. June possessed some nifty skills: she was an excellent self-taught artist, she could shoot whiskey with the boys like she was one of them, and she could make wicked smoke rings. However, grace and athletics eluded her.

      “I don’t think he’s armed,” June said. “I doubt you need to defend a funeral home.”

      “You never know,” Micha said behind her. “Necrophiliacs probably like to break into funeral homes.”

      June closed her eyes; she counted to five, and then ten, but when she opened her eyes again, she wasn’t any calmer.

      “I won’t hurt you,” the man on the floor said in a small, pitiful voice. “Just take what you want and go.”

      June stepped forward and waved a hand at Cindy, shooing away the gun. June had never touched a gun in her life. She had never needed to.

      Cindy lowered the gun and stepped back. “I was just trying to help.” She spoke with the petulance of an admonished child. A child who didn’t get to play with her deadly weapon.

      June knelt. The paunchy balding man was shaking, his eyes wide.

      “It’s all right.” A heavy energy, curled in June's stomach like a sleeping cat, rose to her sternum and surged upward again to warmly coat her throat. “Just sit there and relax and think about your favorite things until we’re gone.”

      The man’s body sagged. His face slackened. He pivoted to the side and sat down on his bottom with a shuddering thump, his gaze gone distant and dreamy. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

      June stood.

      “There. Isn’t that awesome? Supernatural powers and stuff?” She didn’t enjoy throwing around her “hypnotic voice phenomenon,” as the scientists liked to call it, but invasive persuasion seemed far less cruel than criminal menacing.

      Cindy pushed the gun forcefully into a holster on her hip. June winced, afraid it might go off, but thankfully—or perhaps regrettably—it didn’t. June had failed to notice Cindy was wearing a holster, probably because she’d been too busy figuring out how to break into a funeral home.

      “Come on,” June said. “Let’s get this done.”

      She stepped past the oblivious man on the floor. Micha followed.

      The casket, tucked into a bank of flowers and wreaths, rested atop a short dais like a morbid confectionery in a baking contest. June slid her hand along the side of the casket to find a latch. She did not want to do this. Despite the mind-obliterating madness she’d survived recently, corpses still jangled her nerves.

      “Gah.” She lifted the lid a few inches.

      She turned into a baby around corpses, despite knowing they weren't going to sit up and strangle her. Earlier, when she’d voiced speculative, mostly joking concern about the dead getting their revenge, Cindy pointed out scientific research had proven zombies non-existent.

      “Turn a light on.” June took a bracing breath and opened the lid farther. She expected a bad smell, but a faintly chemical, perfume-y odor wafted out.

      “Here.” Cindy slid up beside her.

      A pale bluish light illuminated the space around them and fell on the still, poised figure inside the casket. Cindy held her cell phone aloft, screen lit. June paused.

      “What?” Cindy’s eyes shone in the faint light.

      “I think if you try, you could be a little more disrespectful. Maybe you’d like to shoot her a couple times? Turn on a light!”

      “You’re the one breaking into her casket.” Cindy tapped the screen to renew the light. “We can’t turn on a light. Someone might see. Hurry up. This is freaking me out.”

      “It’s freaking you out?” June opened the lid fully. She snatched the phone from Cindy and held it closer to the body to get the grim task over with.

      Micha’s wife, the esteemed Mrs. Rose Bellevue, had been a lovely woman. Had. Been. She had high delicate cheekbones, plump lips, and dusky skin—the times June had seen her alive, anyway. Her dark hair was fixed in a neat knot atop her head, loose curls spilling onto the white pillow beneath her. A tiny smile touched her lips. Her long-fingered hands rested delicately on her stomach, manicured nails gleaming. She wore a white dress with a boxy neckline and lace sleeves. She looked like an angel instead of a zombie, thank God.

      June waited for Micha's response, sort of hoping, sort of not. “Well?”

      Micha leaned closer and peered at her face. The light on the phone dimmed. June jabbed the screen, and a moment later a faint jingle came out of the phone.

      “Give me that.” Cindy yanked the phone from her and looked at the screen. “You just dialed my boyfriend. Good work.”

      June was aghast. “I can’t believe anyone would date you.”

      “One of them.”

      Cindy disconnected the call and shone the light back on Rose’s face. June ground her teeth and pulled a breath through her nose.

      After a tense, silent moment, Micha stood upright. “No. I don’t recognize her.” He shrugged. “Pretty, though. I must have game.”

      June smoothed a hand over her hair. The strands were greasy and limp and she winced. She hadn’t had a shower in more days than she wanted to contemplate.

      “All right,” June said. “It was worth a try. Let’s split, before we get caught. We’ll go through the front door this time.”

      Cindy lowered her phone and patted her hip. “If we have to fight our way out, I’m ready.”

      “Yes, if the legions of undead try to block our escape.”

      June carefully closed the lid of the casket, turned, and walked down the aisle, past rows of couches and folding chairs. The funeral would be huge. She had to get the hell out of the place, away from the woman’s dead body and her own guilt. She needed to get the hell out of Chicago, but she couldn’t. Not yet.

      Not until she got her brother back.

      * * * *

      Cindy had an apartment in West Lakeview. She told June that’s where they were, but June didn’t care if they were on the moon. She felt like she was on the moon, in some bizarre alternate reality, even if all signs pointed to being on earth. Cindy also had a tortoiseshell cat named Serendipity—Dipity for short—that liked to sit on June.

      June lay in bed in Cindy’s guest room, a small white box with little decoration or furniture—a twin bed, a sagging sofa, and a hulking, ugly wooden dresser. Dipity sat on June’s stomach, kneading her belly as she prepared her for—who knew? Dinner, probably. One paw, then the other. Over and over. Knead, knead. Knead, knead. A cigarette dangled from the corner of June’s mouth, one eye open as she peered through the smoke, past the bowl she was utilizing as an ashtray on her chest.

      “Will you lay the hell down?” June snarled.

      Dipity did, folding herself into a loaf and gazing at June with wide, accusing yellow eyes. Dipity moved up and down as June breathed.

      Soft slapping footsteps