Walking Dead. C.E. Murphy

wrapped around her breasts, a very short skirt and a blond wig that suited her even more poorly than long hair suited me. At least my wig and my natural hair color were the same: black. Phoebe’s hair was also black, and being blond did her olive complexion no favors. On the other hand, she was having fun, though I wasn’t convinced it was more fun than she’d have as a brunette. It didn’t matter either way, as long as she kept everybody’s attention off me.

      I should have known better than to let her choose my Halloween costume. The last time she’d dressed me I’d ended up in an itty-bitty gold-lamé shirt, and jeans that stopped somewhere several miles south of my navel. This time she’d put me in a midriff-baring, boob-enhancing, hip-riding leather-pleated-skirt thing with ass-kicking boots and a variety of increasingly useless-looking weapons. I’d flat-out refused to wear it without a mask. Phoebe insisted that particular outfit didn’t have a mask. I insisted there was no way on this earth she could get me out of the house with my face—not to mention other body parts unfamiliar with seeing the light—showing. She’d finally given in and provided me with a golden mask “from season six” that left my mouth and jaw exposed, but hid more recognizable features, like my slightly too-beaky nose. Between it and the wig, I hoped nobody would know it was me.

      I walked through the doors a few feet behind Phoebe, who cleared the way with a quarterstaff taller than she was. I didn’t really think she needed the quarterstaff: one glower from beneath Phoebe’s Frida Kahlo eyebrow was enough to quell me, and I had an eight-inch-height advantage over her.

      Of course, it was a party, which meant the glower wasn’t really in place. Instead of skedaddling, people grinned, and then they got a load of me. A wolf whistle broke out, followed by a smattering of applause and a cheerfully bellowed, “Damn, Joanne, your legs go all the way up, don’t they?”

      So much for not being recognized. I had a peace-knotted sword on one hip and a round yin-yang thing on the other. I loosened the yin-yang and shook it threateningly, but no one looked even slightly threatened. Someone did start a betting pool on whether Phoebe or I would win a fight. I put ten dollars on Phoebe and made my way farther into the room.

      The noise was astonishing. Phoebe and I had been there all afternoon setting up, only leaving an hour or so earlier to go change into our costumes. Since then, an easy two hundred people had jammed into a hall meant for maybe a hundred and fifty, and enough of them were cops that somebody really should’ve taken the moral high ground and called the fire marshal. Instead, people were dancing, laughing, shouting at each other, waving red cups of cheap party drinks in the air and generally looking as if they were having a good time. I’d never helped throw a party before, much less one people came to by the hundreds. I felt all proud, and felt even better when Thor the Thunder God came through the crowd to stop in front of me with a smile. “Can I get you a drink?”

      I looked him up and down, like he had to pass muster before I decided he was worthy of fetching refreshments. He did. In fact, at a guess, there was nobody more mustery at the party. He wore a tight-fitting sleeveless blue shirt with half a dozen shimmering circles set in two rows down his front, and jeans, which made him a rather modern god. Still, the loose blond hair and the goatee he’d grown out over the last few months went a long way toward the look. So did the sledgehammer he’d strapped across his back. It looked like a much more effective weapon than either of the ones I was carrying, and I was briefly jealous. He’d forgone a traditional Viking helmet, but since the man looked like Thor in his day-to-day life, he really didn’t need it to pull off the costume. His smile broadened, becoming more godlike as he looked me up and down in turn. “I thought you didn’t do Halloween.”

      “I thought so, too,” I said dryly. “Phoebe thought otherwise.” I tugged the mask off and rubbed my nose. If people were going to insist on knowing who I was, at least I could indulge in breathing. Besides, I’d been kidding myself about being unrecognizable. Phoebe’d chosen the outfit because I had the physical stature for it: in bare feet I stood half an inch under six feet tall, and had the breadth of shoulder that came with working on cars most of my life. Or, I guessed, if I was going to stay in character, with swinging a sword all my life. I’d actually only been doing that for about six months, which was a lot more than I’d ever imagined doing. Anyway, Seattle’s North Precinct police department wasn’t littered with women my height, so even though the point of a costume party was disguise, I probably would have had to arrive as a short bald man to actually be mistaken for someone other than myself.

      Thor was still grinning at me. “I think this is one matchup they never had on the show. We should get our picture taken.”

      “You’re seriously deluded if you think I’m going to let anybody take my picture in this getup.” Thor waved at somebody as I spoke, then turned me around. A flash went off in our faces and I tried to lurch two directions at once: toward the camera to destroy it, and toward Thor, possibly to destroy him, too. Our photographer squeezed away through the crowd, leaving me to bonk my head on Thor’s shoulder and groan. “Thanks a lot. Anyway, I never saw the show. Why would she be running around with Thor? I thought she was, like, Greek.”

      “How could you have never seen it?” Thor asked incredulously. “Don’t you ever just turn the TV on and watch whatever’s on?”

      I shrugged. “Not really, unless I catch a Law & Order marathon. I don’t watch a lot of fantasy shows.”

      “Mmmph.” He considered me a moment. “Maybe I wouldn’t, either, if I were you. You want that drink?”

      All of a sudden, I did. Thor’s reminder wasn’t enough to get my panties in a bunch the way it would’ve a few months ago—which was good, since there was no way to discreetly debunch panties under my teeny-weeny skirt—but an out-loud mention in public was a tad on the overwhelming side. Overwhelmed must’ve shown in my face, because Thor pushed off through the crowd, people making way for the thunder god without thinking about it.

      A dippy little grin edged its way across my face as I watched him go. He was a good guy, probably better than I deserved. Certainly better than I’d treated him as when we’d first met and I’d saddled him with the Thor nickname. I mean, yeah, he was tall and blond and gorgeous and had shoulders slightly wider than the Grand Canyon, but I’d been pissed off that he’d replaced me as a mechanic at the cop chop shop, and had given myself license to call him whatever I wanted.

      I’d been, if you wanted to get right down to it, a bit of an asshole. I hoped I was starting to improve, but in the meantime, Thor—whose real name was Edward—had admitted that as nicknames went, Thor wasn’t bad. I wouldn’t have expected him to put on a costume and run with it, but people surprised me all the time. Sometimes I surprised even myself.

      Like now. I popped up on my toes to gain another inch in height, and for once I ran with it and gave myself permission to see a little more clearly.

      Not just see, but See. Edward had an aura that suited the nickname I’d given him: it was all stormy grays and blues, with shattered bits of white crashing through it. He was, by nature, good-humored, and those sparks of brilliance were usually wit, but I expected if he got his dander up, they’d be as deadly as the lightning Thor was supposed to be able to call.

      For a few seconds, the entire room danced with light. Everyone was in high spirits, obvious from not only the laughter and ribald teasing, but the warmth and camaraderie of people feeding each other’s energy and keeping it going in a positive cycle. It felt good to revel in that energy, but watching it constantly made the real world harder to see, and despite it all, I still preferred the real world.

      It’d been nearly a year since I’d been laid out in a parking lot with a sword in my lung and a smirking coyote offering me the choice between death or life as a shaman. In all my waking hours I’d never thought of wanting any kind of mystical gifts or healing powers, but I’d wanted to die even less. It had occurred to me once or twice since then that even in the absolute worst of circumstances, there were choices to be made. The sticky bit was that we tend to think of choices as being one good thing versus one bad thing. When the available options all suck, you took the one you could live with.

      In my case, that was a very literal what I could live