Fiona, the revenant

You rap on Fiona’s door, and you hear her, faintly, call “Come in!”

You let yourself into her bedroom. You don’t see her at first, but then her head peeks out of the bathroom door. Her hair is wet, and you remember that you heard the shower running recently. “Hi,” she says. “What’s up?”

“Just checking to see if there’s anything you needed. Before I turn in for the night.”

“Aw, that’s sweet of you. Hold on.” She ducks back into the bathroom for a moment, then steps out, wearing one towel wrapped around her chest and hips, and one draped over her head, which she’s using to rub and dry her hair.

You take a brief moment to admire her. She’s not tall, a little under five-and-a-half feet, but well-curved, with round hips and a prominent bust. Her bare, well-toned legs remind you that her cheerleader’s figure has been perfectly preserved. The color of her skin is a bit disconcerting: a lifeless gray, though still smooth and supple. Her eyes are gray as well, and when she shakes her hair loose, it’s long, black, and curly, with a white streak arcing back from the middle of her forehead.

“I wanted to make sure I wasn’t using too much electricity,” she says, smiling at you. “It’s not many hotel room that are wired for 220, and I think I’ve been splurging a bit.”

“I had it wired special for you when you called ahead and explained … your requirements,” you tell her. It’s always been your policy to try to serve the unique needs of your unique clients. “Splurge as much as you like.”

She grins, showing you perfect teeth. Then she turns and regards herself in the dressing-table mirror. Her face is round and lovely, even as she frowns and plucks at her curly hair. “It always comes out frizzy,” she says. “Must be the electricity.”

“It looks great,” you tell her.

She turns and smiles at you again. “Thanks. This place is fantastic! I haven’t felt this good since before the accident.” She hugs herself, spins on her toes. “Man, that 220 is good stuff.”

When her eyes come to rest on you again, she has a sly, speculative expression on her face. “Hey,” she says, “you want to …”

She hesitates, without finishing the sentence. “Want to what?” you ask.

“Oh …” She gives you a mischievous look. “We could … I mean, I’m not exactly alive, but when I’ve had a good charge, I get … kind of horny, you know? And you’ve been so good to me, and I thought, well … you want to?”