“I heard you raise zombies that don’t even know they’re dead.”

“Not at first,” I said, “but eventually the magic wears off, and it’s… not pretty, Mr. Bennington.”

“Please,” he said, “no one else can do this but you.”

“If I could raise her from the dead for real for you, maybe I would. I won’t debate the whole religious/philosophical problem with you, but the truth is that even I can’t do what you want. I raise zombies, Mr. Bennington, and that is not the same thing as resurrection of the dead. I’m good, maybe the best there is in the business, but I’m not that good. No one is.”

A tear began to slide down each cheek, and I knew from my own hatred of crying that the tears were hot, and his throat hurt with holding it all in. “I don’t beg, Ms. Blake-ever-but I’ll beg you now. I’ll double your fee. I’ll do whatever it takes for you to do this for me.”

That he was willing to double my fee meant he had as much money as he seemed to have; a lot of people who wore designer suits and Rolex watches were wearing their money. I stood again. “I am sorry, but I don’t have the ability to do what you want. No one on this earth can bring your wife back from the dead in the way you want.”

“It’s too late for her to be a vampire, then?”

“First, she’d have to have been bitten before she died to have any chance of raising her as a vampire. Second, you say she died in an explosion.”

He nodded, his face ignoring the tears, except for the pain in his eyes and the hard line of his jaw.

“Fire is one of the few things that destroy everything, even the preternatural.”

“One of the reasons I’m here, Ms. Blake, is that most animators have trouble raising the dead when there’re just burned bits left. I thought that was because of how little they had to work with, but is it because of the fire itself?”

It was a good question, an intelligent question, but I didn’t have a good answer to give back to him.