The Laughing Corpse by Laurell K. Hamilton

late forties, maybe. He was wearing a white undershirt with a plaid shirt unbuttoned over it. The sleeves were folded back as far as they’d go. Sweat stood out on his forehead. I was betting there was a gun at the small of his back. His black hair had a pure white streak just over the forehead. “What is taking so long, Antonio?” His voice was thick and held an accent.
    â€œI searched him for weapons.”
    The older man nodded. “She is ready to see you both.”
    Antonio stood to one side, taking up his post on the porch once more. He made a kissing noise as I walked past. I felt Manny stiffen, but we made it into the living room without anyone getting shot. We were on a roll.
    The living room was spacious, with a dining-room set taking up the left-hand side. There was a wall piano in the living room. I wondered who played. Antonio? Naw.
    We followed the man through a short hallway into a roomy kitchen. Golden oblongs of sunshine lay heavy on a black and white tiled floor. The floor and kitchen were old, but the appliances were new. One of those deluxe refrigerators with an ice maker and water dispenser took up a hunk of the back wall. All the appliances were done in a pale yellow: Harvest Gold, Autumn Bronze.
    Sitting at the kitchen table was a woman in her early sixties. Her thin brown face was seamed with a lot of smile lines. Pure white hair was done in a bun at the nape of her neck. She sat very straight in her chair, thin-boned hands folded on the tabletop. She looked terribly harmless. A nice old granny. If a quarter of what I’d heard about her was true, it was the greatest camouflage I’d ever seen.
    She smiled and held out her hands. Manny stepped forward and took the offering, brushing his lips on her knuckles. “It is good to see you, Manuel.” Her voice was rich, a contralto with the velvet brush of an accent.
    â€œAnd you, Dominga.” He released her hands and sat across from her.
    Her quick black eyes flicked to me, still standing in the doorway. “So, Anita Blake, you have come to me at last.”
    It was a strange thing to say. I glanced at Manny. He gave a shrug with his eyes. He didn’t know what she meant either. Great. “I didn’t know you were eagerly awaiting me, Señora.”
    â€œI have heard stories of you, chica . Wondrous stories.” There was a hint in those black eyes, that smiling face, that was not harmless.
    â€œManny?” I asked.
    â€œIt wasn’t me.”
    â€œNo, Manuel does not talk to me anymore. His little wife forbids it.” That last sentence was angry, bitter.
    Oh, God. The most powerful voodoo priestess in the Midwest was acting like a scorned lover. Shit.
    She turned those angry black eyes to me. “All who deal in vaudun come to Señora Salvador eventually.”
    â€œI do not deal in vaudun.”
    She laughed at that. All the lines in her face flowed into the laughter. “You raise the dead, the zombie, and you do not deal in vaudun. Oh, chica , that is funny.” Her voice sparkled with genuine amusement. So glad I could make her day.
    â€œDominga, I told you why we wished this meeting. I made it very clear . . .” Manny said.
    She waved him to silence. “Oh, you were very careful on the phone, Manuel.” She leaned towards me. “He made it very clear that you were not here to participate in any of my pagan rituals.” The bitterness in her voice was sharp enough to choke on.
    â€œCome here, chica ,” she said. She held out one hand to me, not both. Was I supposed to kiss it as Manny had done. I didn’t think I’d come to see the pope.
    I realized then that I didn’t want to touch her. She had done nothing wrong. Yet, the muscles in my shoulders were screaming with tension. I was afraid, and I didn’t know why.
    I stepped forward and took her hand, uncertain what to do with it. Her skin was warm and dry. She sort of lowered me to the