Laurell K. Hamilton: A Clean Sweep

It's been said that familiarity breeds contempt. How long can even the extraordinary retain its novelty

in an everyday world?

Captain Housework materialized on the doorstep of #11 Pear Tree Lane. His emergency beeper had

awakened him, code red. Was it his nemesis Dr. Grime, or the infamous Dust Bunny Gang, or perhaps

Pond Scum, the destroyer of bathrooms?

He had to levitate to reach the doorbell. As crimefighters go, Captain Housework was on the short side.

His white coveralls, silver cape, and mask—formed of a billed cap with eye holes—were gleamingly

clean. He stood on the top step shining as if carved from ivory and silver.

He looked perfect, crisp, and clean. And he liked it that way.

The door opened, and a woman dressed in a bathrobe stared down at him. "Oh, it's you. Please come

in." She held the door for him, waving him in eagerly.

He stared up at her, a grim smile on his face. "And what dastardly villain is plaguing your home, dear

lady?''

She blinked at him. "Dastardly villain?" She gave a small laugh. "Oh, no, it's nothing like that. My

husband made the call. Did he say we had a supervillain in the house?"

Captain Housework drew himself up to his full three feet and said, "It was a code red, Madam. That

means a supervillain has been spotted."

The woman laughed again. "Oh, dear, no. I've got a party of twelve people coming at six o'clock and

my maid cancelled."

"You called the superhero hotline because your maid cancelled." His voice had a harsh edge to it that

the woman did seem to notice.

"Well, my friend Betty had you over when her kids threw that wild patty. You did miracles with her

house."

"I remember the incident. I made it clear that it was an exception to the rules that I aided her."

"But you've just got to help me, Captain Housework." The woman went to her knees, gripping his

arms. "Please, it's too late to turn to anyone else." Tears glittered in her eyes.

Captain Housework crossed his arms across his thin chest, his mouth set in a firm line. "Madam, I am a

superhero, not a maid. I do not think you realize how terrible my foes can be. Have you ever had a

wave of black mildew engulf your husband and eat him to the bone before your eyes?"

She blinked at him. "Well, no, but surely that does happen all that often. In the meantime, could you

help me, just this once?"

It was true that his archenemies had been lying low for a while. Work had been slow. He stared into her

tear-stained face and nodded. "All right, but only this once."

She hugged him, crumpling the bill of his mask. He pushed away from her, straightening his costume.

"That will not be necessary. I will get to work at once, if that is all right with you?"

Laurell K. Hamilton: The girl who was infatuated with death

IT was five days before Christmas, a quarter 'til midnight. I should have been a snooze in my bed dreaming of sugarplums, whatever the hell they were, but I wasn't. I was sitting across my desk sipping coffee and offering a box of Kleenexes to my client, Ms. Rhonda Mackenzie. She'd been crying for nearly the entire meeting, so that she'd wiped most of her careful eye makeup away, leaving her eyes pale and unfinished, younger, like what she must have looked like when she was in high school. The dark, perfect lipstick made the eyes look emptier, more vulnerable.

"I'm not usually like this, Ms. Blake. I am a very strong woman." Her voice took on a tone that said she believed this, and it might even be true. She raised those naked brown eyes to me and there was fierceness in them that might have made a weaker person flinch. Even I, tough-as-nails vampire-hunter that I am, had trouble meeting the rage in those eyes.

"It's alright, Ms. Mackenzie, you're not the first client that's cried. It's hard when you've lost someone."

She looked up startled. "I haven't lost anyone, not yet."

I sat my coffee cup back down without drinking from it and stared at her. "I'm an animator, Ms. Mackenzie. I raise the dead if the reason is good enough. I assumed this amount of grief was because you'd come to ask me to raise someone close to you."

She shook her head, her deep brown curls in disarray around her face as if she'd been running her hands through what was once a perfect perm. "My daughter, Amy, is very much alive and I want her to stay that way."

Now I was just plain confused. "I raise the dead and am a legal vampire executioner, Ms. Mackenzie. How do either of those jobs help you keep your daughter alive?"

"I want you to help me find her before she commits suicide."

I just stared at her, my face professionally blank, but inwardly, I was cursing my boss. He and I had had discussions about exactly what my job description was, and suicidal daughters weren't part of that description.

"Have you gone to the police?" I asked.

Laurell K. Hamilton: Those Who Seek Forgiveness

«Death is a very serious matter, Mrs. Fiske. People who go through it are never the same.»

The woman leaned forward, cradling her face in her hands. Her slim shoulders shook quietly for a few minutes. I passed another box of tissues her way. She groped for them blindly and then looked up. «I know you can't bring him back, exactly.»

She wiped at two tears, which escaped and rolled down flawless cheekbones. The purse she clutched so tightly was reptile, at least two hundred dollars. Her accessories—lapel pin, high heels, hat, and gloves—were all black as her purse. Her suit was gray. Neither color suited her, but they emphasized her pale skin and hollow eyes. She was the sort of woman that made me feel too short, too dark, and gave me the strange desire to lose ten more pounds. If she hadn't been so genuinely grief-stricken, I could have disliked her.

«I have to talk to Arthur. That's my husband . . . was my husband.» She took a deep breath and tried again. «Arthur died suddenly. A massive coronary.» She blew delicately into a tissue. «His family did have a history of heart disease, but he always took such good care of himself.» She finished with a watery hiccup. «I want to say good-bye to him, Miss Blake.»

I smiled reassuringly. «We all have things left unsaid when death comes suddenly. But it isn't always best to raise the dead and say it.»

Her blue eyes stared intently through a film of tears. I was going to discourage her as I discourage every one of my clients, but this one would do it. There was a certain set to the eyes that said serious.

«There are certain limitations to the process.» My boss didn't allow us to show slides or pictures or give graphic descriptions, but we were supposed to tell the truth. One good picture of a decaying zombie would have sent most of my clients screaming.

«Limitations?»