The employee lounge of the Mundane doubles as the basement for some reason. In any case, Roderigo is more than happy to help.

I ask, "Out of curiosity, isn't calling yourself Smith kind of cheating?"

"It's better than all the other alternatives," says Smithers Oxford Smith, still wearing my lilac hoodie. His voice is mild.

"I swear I'm not trying to be mean." I pinch his cheek when he turns to look at me. And then I pat it, to his confusion, because his inability to control his face is cute. I explain: "It's weird to be calling you Smith when I call your sister Smith. I'm not saying it's a bad name. I'm just going to get confused. Do you have anything else you'd like to be called?"

"Call us Girl Smith, Boy Smith, maybe?" Unimaginative but Forgiven, Boy Smith adds, "You already had some nicknames for me. Go with those. I like them." He deflates.

I halt pulling my hand back, confused. "But you weren't cool with Cheekbones. It's not cute, right?"

"I was just," the Best Smith begins, and then looks embarrassed. He flickers his eyes between my face and my lowered hand. He looks as if he's hoping he waits long enough, he can communicate with me telepathically. Eventually, he ducks his head between his shoulders in his patented way, shaking his head. "I was just teasing," he says to the floor. "It's from you, so I don't mind it if you really want to. Cheekbones is fine." He scratches his cheek. "Let's go through the others." He looks up. "What do you have in mind?"

It'd probably be awkward to start touching his face, now that I've realized what he wanted. "Uh..." I think back to him looking super pleased about being called 'babe' and 'Snickerdoodle Snookums'. "How about S.M.I.T.H.? As in an acronym? So Much Important Tongue Here?" I stick my tongue out to make a point.

"Won't that be longer to say?" My favourite Smith makes a face, but I can tell he's fighting a laugh. "Pass."

"S.O.S. Sauce. You're very saucy, you know."

"Only with you," he says, which is a honest, forthright, heart-felt confession I was completely unprepared for.

I fluster. "O.X.F.O.R.D. Uh...Originally X-iled From Office Really..."

"You don't have to make one up on the spot," he tells me. "How about S.O.?"

"S.O. as in Significant Other, or Shout-out?"

"Shout-out?" he repeats, and then brightens, straightening. His whole face transforms into delight. "Actually, that's nice. I'm a shout-out. I support and appreciate you. I like that. Does that count?"

I would murder for his happiness. "You are the best shout-out," I tell him, fighting the urge to drag him down and molest his mouth with mine. "Also the Sexiest Oxford." He gives me a look. "What? That works with S.O."

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, wry, huffing another laugh.

"Okay, what about this? S.O.: Sweetest Ass."

"Ass doesn't start with O."

"Yours sure does," I say. "As in, 'Oh my god, am I happy to see that'."

"It's just my butt," he says, but the tips of his ears turn pink. He lets me hold his hand when I reach for it, so I win everything.

A loud cough interrupts us. The lights go out. Sweetest Ass Smith squeezes my hand by instinct, tensing. He relaxes only when he realizes I'm not stressed at all. That, and he's smelled scented candles. He leans forward a little, curious.

Roderigo emerges from the darkness with a stiff smile. "I hope I'm not interrupting your important discussion," he says. "But, I need all parties to be paying some kind of attention. Not flirting or deciding pet names." He's holding two candle sticks under his face, creating dark shadows that look even darker.

"Focus, you two," says Petey. He's lying in the middle of a giant pentagram on a tarp ("For easier clean up," Roderigo says), still without a shirt. If I wasn't holding Cheekbones's hand in one hand and holding a candle stick with the other, I'd be covering my eyes. As it is, the man's in the half-nude, and I'm going to have to stare at him as this whole thing happens. "Or do I have to come over there and pull you both apart myself?"

"Sorry," I say at the same time that Cheekbones does. The only difference is that Cheekbones sounds chastised, and I don't sound sorry at all.

Roderigo sighs. He passes each of us a candle. "Take these and stand on the line of the circle after I've done the first step." From his pocket, he tears a packet of salt open into the palm of his hand. From a bin at the side of the floor, he scoops up a handful of white powder in his palm. "After that, keep holding hands with each other, and face the corpse."

"Oh," I say, recognizing the smell of the powder. "Detergent, huh?"

Roderigo has the dignity to look embarrassed. "Leslie hates it when I make a mess. We compromised." With that, he steps into the circle. He mutters something under his breath. The candles flicker. "By the power invested in me," he calls into the darkness, "I call upon the name of Petey Asaman--"

Cheekbones snorts, and then freezes, looking horrified.

Roderigo stops. His head snaps to us. "Is there something funny?"

Cheekbones looks down at his candle, hasty. "No sir." When I look at him, his eyes flicker to me. Embarrassed, he confesses, "I heard 'Pity Assman'."

I snigger. "Sometimes people even say 'Petey Assman', too."

Cheekbones grins, in complete agreement that we are both five years old.

Then he sneezes. And sneezes again.

"Wait, what is it that we're doing? " Cheekbones asks, frowning, nose twitching. He turns his head and rubs the tip into his shoulder. Roderigo spritzes a spray bottle that makes this place smell like hospital.

"Tracking spell," I answer, for Roderigo. Each of the four corners represents a direction. He's activating something in the tarp runes? Knew I should've paid attention in class. "Sorry, we'll be out soon. Can you hold out until then? Or do you want to sit out?"

"I'm okay, it's just... If it's tracking down someone he's interacted with, I can use my nose." Cheekbones sneezes again. Then sneezes three more times in a row. "Or not." He sneezes again, and raises our joint hands together to rub at tip of nose with his knuckles, sniffling. "Ergh."

"That was the first thing I asked Susie," Petey comments. "But even a werewolf's nose can't separate scents from a corpse that's been dead and in a morgue fridge for a week."

"A week?" At Roderigo's nod, I walk Cheekbones and I into the circle. "That can't be right. Your body's been dead for at least two."

"Autopsy report says a week," Petey says. "And you know getting fridged slows down body decay."

"And I'm telling you that I passed Corpse Preservation 101 with flying colours," I say. "I'm the one who sewed you up, Petey. It's two weeks."

"No," Cheekbones interrupts. "A week is right."

Petey and I exchange a glance, before I look at Cheekbones. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Cheekbones starts, and then hesitates at my expression. He looks at Petey, and then at me again. "Wait, what do you mean, first?"

"Petey's dead is two weeks dead," I say, but then, "Petey, does it actually say a week on your report?"

"A week to this day, exactly." Petey looks unsure. "Are you sure it's two? You could be wrong."

Even I don't joke about this. I shake my head. "No. It's two weeks, Petey."

"That can't be right," Cheekbones says, eyebrows furrowed. "He's a week dead. I know that for sure."

"We're starting." Roderigo interrupts. The pentagram under Petey begins to glow green in the dark. "You two can keep talking, but don't let go of your hands, and keep facing him. And don't be louder than I am."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I hazard, and mull over it, even as Roderigo sprinkles Petey's chest with powder. "Hey, what do you mean by Petey's a week dead? How do you know?"

Cheekbones looks like he's not about to tell me. I squeeze his hand and stroke the back of it with my thumb.

"I'm not mad," I say, keeping my voice low. "Or upset. I believe you. Why do you say Petey's for sure a week dead?"

He shifts his weight on his feet, candlelight highlighting the planes of his face. His eyes drag from Petey to me. "Because--"

Roderigo says something. Petey's entire body erupts in bright light. His head thunks back against the tarp-covered ground. Exploding with a bang, a sudden gust of strong wind bursts in.

The candles go out. I hear Petey's screaming, and Roderigo's chanting in the background.

The wind gusts past us, whipping our hair, trying to destabilize our footing. Cheekbones squeezes my hand so hard he almost breaks it, but I hold fast and firm. A rhythmic pounding starts hitting the ground, each loud and reverberating.

Soon, silence falls.

It's still dark. The only thing I hear is Roderigo's gasping, "What the hell?"

"Is everything okay?" Cheekbones asks, nervous.

Roderigo doesn't answer, but he does turn on all the lights right away.

On the ground, Petey's eyes have rolled into the back of his head, and he's not moving. His limbs twist unnaturally from the joints. Blood has spilled from the corners of his eyes. Black goo dribbles down from his lips. He's dead again.

"Your corpse is cursed," Roderigo says to me shortly, furious. "Both of you take it and get the hell out of my basement."

I stand my ground, even as Cheekbones bristles. Cursed corpses are no big deal in our line of business, but I can see why he's upset. I glance over at Petey, already planning on what I'll need to do to figure out what it is. "What about the tracking spell?" I ask, calm. "What does it direct us to?"

"Out of hotel policy," Roderigo snaps, pulling a corded phone off the cradle from the wall. "Leslie," he says, "There's a contamination. I need you down here."

Beside me, Cheekbones isn't moving. "You okay?" I ask. "Don't worry, this isn't new for me."

He looks scared, before he shakes himself out of it. He then nods. "Yeah," he croaks, dropping the candle. As if even unlit, it burns him. "I'm okay. Let's get your cousin out of here."