Undead and unworthy, p.1
Undead and Unworthy, page 1
part #7 of Undead Series
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Author's Note
A Note to the Reader
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
UNDEAD AND UNWORTHY
Betsy 07
By
MaryJanice Davidson
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York
New York 10014, USA
Penguin Books Ltd.
Registered Offices:
80 Strand
London WC2R 0RL
England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by MaryJanice Alongi
eISBN : 978-1-436-22851-0
http://us.penguingroup.com
For my dear husband,
who remains undaunted.
Acknowledgments
How about that dedication, huh? (I know, I know. It's so gauche to pat yourself on the back... and in the section where you're supposed to be thanking other people!)
It's like that old saying, "May you live in interesting times," which sounds nice if you don't sit down and think 'er over, but which is really kind of horrifying.
And I'm not leading up to anything here. That dedication wasn't a dig at my husband, who's only the funniest, smartest, and coolest guy in the – in the – ever. Okay? Ever. I know people twice his age who are half as smart.
Hmm. That was more flattering when we were twenty.
Well, bottom line, he's awesome, and I'm lucky, but I had to use that dedication, because it made me think "that was just like that dedication about interesting times," and I always wished I could think up a vague dedication, something a little more interesting than "To Spot, the greatest Dalmatian ever!!!!!!" and then I did, and so there you go.
And I know what you're thinking: "I didn't shoplift this MJD book for mush, for schmaltz, for a bunch of ooooh-I-love-him-so-much crapola. I shoplifted it for sarcasm and a lightweight plot!" And you'll have that, I promise. It's just that I don't always give credit where credit is due, is all. And I wanted to be sure to do that this time.
Which brings me to other family members. As always, they are relentlessly funny and knee-weakeningly supportive. As always, I don't usually notice at the time, but end up absurdly grateful after the fact.
Thanks to my children, who make being a full-time writer easy, because they're so darned low maintenance. Just last month I walked in on my mother showing my youngest where I'd dedicated a book to him, and it was a beautiful scene. "See? That's about you. That's you, honey, on a page with a first American print run of six figures, which will of course be increased at no hesitation if there is sufficient public demand, so give this to your teacher and talk it up at show and tell, all right?"
And my son was all, "That's nice, I'd like a pear now."
Well, okay, not really. I mean, his reaction was real. Pretty much verbatim. That stuff my mom said was made up after the second "you." Although she is very supportive. Hand-sells lots of my books. You know that strange woman who walks right up to you and starts chatting about her stupid kid, who you've never met and never want to meet, but who apparently writes (yawn), and you buy her kid's dumb book so you don't hurt her feelings, because, even if she's lightly medicated, she's really nice? That's my mom.
And the tall guy lurking in the background ready to defend her honor – seriously, he will kick your ass if you look at her sideways. He's as quick to get down and rumble now as he was in his twenties. In his own disturbing way, also supportive.
The other child they had, who will correct booksellers if she spots my books spine-side out in stacks, instead of cover side out? My sister. (Booksellers, beware.)
There's a bunch of other nutwads in the family tree who deserve mentioning, I mean, we haven't even touched on the in-laws yet, and that's a whole other family tree of monkeys. But I'm starting to get bored, and if I am, you've gotta be snoring. Or close to it.
Anyway, thanks, everybody. For everything.
Author's Note
This book takes place two months after the events of Undead and Uneasy and Dead Over Heels. Also cops, like pharmacists, are weird. They can't help it. It's a hazard of their occupation. It's also why they're cool.
Finally, my father was a valuable resource for this book; he's an encyclopedia of guns and ammo. Any mistakes are mine, not his.
A Note to the Reader
This book, book seven of the Undead series (book seven! Jesus!), is the beginning of a new story arc. You probably noticed a change in the cover design (if you're reading the American version, that is), among other things, and that is indicative of the new direction I'm taking the series in.
Just as the first six books in the series were their own story arc, so the next three books will be an arc... think of this book as the first of a trilogy within a series.
My point being, if you get to the end, you needn't fear... there's more to come. Unless you're not a Betsy fan, in which case... be afraid. Be very afraid.
– MaryJanice Davidson
Minneapolis, MN
Winter 2008
The Queene hath dominion over all the dead, and they shalt take from her, as she takes from them, and she shalt noe them, and they her, for that is what it is to be Queene. and The Queene shalt see oceans of blood, and despair.
— THE BOOK OF THE DEAD
Frivolous: Unworthy of serious attention; trivial: a frivolous novel.
— THE AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY
OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE
FOURTH EDITION
I would rather go to any extreme than suffer anything that is unworthy of my reputation, or of that of my crown.
— ELIZABETH I (1533-1603)
Out of me unworthy and unknown The vibrations of deathless music.
— "ANNE RUTLEDGE," BY EDGAR LEE MASTERS (1869-1950)
Chapter 1
Bored, I crossed the carpet in five steps, climbed up on Sinclair's desk, and kissed him. My left knee dislodged the phone, which hit the floor with a muffled thump and instantly started making that annoying eee-eee-eee sound. My right skidded on a fax Sinclair had gotten from some bank.
Surprised, but always up for a nooner (or whatever vampires called sex at 7:30 at night), my husband kissed me back with enthusiasm. Meanwhile, due to the aforementioned knee-skidding, I slammed into him so hard, his chair hit the wall with enough force to put a crack in the wallpaper. More work for the handyman.
He yanked, and my (cashmere! argh) sweater tore down the middle. He shoved, and my skirt (Ann Taylor) went up. He pulled, and my panties (Target) went who knew where? And I was pretty busy tugging and pulling at his suit (try as I might, I could not get the king of the vampires to not wear a suit), so the cloth was flying.
He did that sweep-the-top-of-the-desk thing you see in movies and plopped me on my back. He reached down, and I said, "Not the shoes!" so he left them alone (although I noticed the eye roll and made a mental note to bitch about it later).
He tugged, pulled, and entered. It hurt a little, because normally I needed more than sixteen seconds of foreplay, but it was also pretty fucking great (literally!).
I wrapped my legs around his waist, so I could admire my sequined leopard-print pumps (don't even ask me what they cost). Then I grinned up at him, I couldn't help it, and he smiled back, his dark eyes narrow with lust. It was so awesome to be a newlywed. And I was almost done with my thank-you notes!
I let my head fall back, enjoying the feel of him, the smell of him, his hands on my waist, his dick filling me up, his mouth on my neck, kissing, licking, then biting.
Then my dead stepmother said, "This is all your fault, Betsy, and I'm not going anywhere until you fix it."
To which I replied, "Aaaaah! Aaaaah! AAAAAAH-HHHHHH! "
Sinclair jerked like I'd turned into sunshine and spoke for the first time since I swept into his office . "Elizabeth, what's wrong? Am I hurting you?"
"Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!"
From my vantage point, my dead stepmother was upside down, which somehow made it all the more terrible, because, contrary to popular belief, you can't turn a frown upside down.
"You can fuss all you want, but you've got responsibilities, and don't think I don't know it." She shook her head at me, and in death, as in life, her overly coiffed pineapple-blond hair didn't move. She was wearing a fuchsia skirt, a low-cut sky blue blouse, black nylons, and fuchsia pumps. Also, too much makeup. It practically hurt to look at her. "So you better get to work."
"Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!"
Sinclair pulled out and started frantically feeling me. "Where are you hurt?"
"The Ant! The Ant!"
"You – what?"
Before I could elaborate (and where to begin?), I heard thundering footsteps, and then Marc slammed into the closed office door. His scent was unmistakeable – antiseptic and dried blood.
I heard him back off and grab for the doorknob, and then he was standing in the doorway. "Betsy, are you – oh my God!" He went red so fast I was afraid he was going to have a stroke. "I'm sorry, jeez, I thought that was a bad 'aaaaahhhh,' not a sex 'aaaaahhh.' "
More footsteps, and then my best friend, Jessica, was saying, "What's wrong? Is she okay?" She was so skinny and short, I couldn't see her behind Marc.
"The Ant is here!" I yowled, as Sinclair assembled the rags of his suit, picked me up off the desk, and shoved me behind him. I don't know why he bothered; Marc was gay and a doctor, and so couldn't care less if I was mostly naked. And Jessica had seen me naked about a million times. "Here, right now!"
"Your stepmother's in this room?" I still couldn't see her, but Jessica's tone managed to convey the sheer horror I felt at the prospect of being haunted by the Ant.
"Where else would I be?" the Ant, the late Antonia Taylor, said reasonably. She was tapping her Paylessclad foot and nibbling her lower lip. "What I'd like to know is, where's your father?"
"Yeah, that's all this scene is missing," I fumed. "If only my dead dad were here, too."
Chapter 2
After Marc decided a Valium drip probably wouldn't work on a vampire, he brought me a stiff drink instead. Could he even tap a vein? I was over a year dead, after all. Would an IV take? Someday I was going to have to sit down and figure all this shit out. Someday when I wasn't plagued by ghosts, serial killers, wedding planning, rogue werewolves, mysterious vampires bursting in on me, and diaper changing.
It was sweet of Marc to bring me a gin and tonic (which I loathed, but he didn't know that), but I was so rattled I drank it off in one gulp, and it could have been paint thinner, for all I knew.
"Is she still here?" he whispered.
"Of course I'm still here," my dead stepmother snapped. "I told you, I'm not going anywhere."
"I'm the only one who can hear you," I shrilled, "so just shut up!"
"Bring her another drink," Sinclair muttered. We were still in his office, but Jessica had kindly brought robes to cover our shredded clothes. "Bring her three."
"I don't need booze, I need to get rid of you know what."
"Very funny," the Ant grumped.
She and my father had been killed in a gruesome, stupid car accident a couple of months ago. Where she had been since her death, and why she had shown up now, I didn't know. There were so many things about being the vampire queen I didn't know! And I didn't want to know.
But I was going to have to find out, because the ghosts never, ever went away, until I solved their little problems for them.
And where was my dead dad, anyway? I sighed. Nonconfrontational in life as well as in death.
"What do you want?"
"I told you. To fix this."
"Fix what?"
"You know."
"This is so weird," Marc murmured to Jessica, forgetting, as usual, about superior vamp hearing. "She's having a conversation with the chair."
"She is not. Quiet so I can hear."
"I don't know," I said to the chair – uh, the Ant. "I really, really don't. Please tell me."
"Stop playing games."
"I'm not!" I almost screamed. Then I felt Sinclair's soothing hands on my shoulders and sagged into him. Like our honeymoon hadn't been stressful enough, what with all the dead kids and Jessica and her boyfriend crashing it and all. This was a hundred times worse.
"If you could just – " I began, when the office door crashed open, nearly smashing into Marc, who yelped and jumped aside.
A bloody, stinking horror was framed in the doorway, then darted right at me like a goblin in a fairy tale. Since I was a tad keyed up from the Ant popping in, my reflexes were in excellent shape. I slugged the thing – it was a man, a big, bearish, shambling man – so hard I knocked him halfway across the office. He hit the carpet so hard, buttons popped off his shirt, which looked about ready for the ragbag anyway.
He was on his feet in a flash and looked wildly from Sinclair to me and back again. And he was – there was something familiar about him. Something I couldn't put my finger on.
Sinclair and I started toward him in unison, and he backed up, pivoted, and dived out the second story window.
"What the blue hell – ?" I began.
The office door crashed open, and I felt like clutching my heart. I couldn't stand many more of these shocks to my system.
Garrett, the Fiend formerly known as George, stood in the doorway, panting. Since he was seventy-some years old and didn't need to breathe, I knew at once something was seriously wrong.
What fresh hell was this?
"They're awake," he gasped. "And they want to kill you."
"Who?" Sinclair, Jessica, Marc, and I asked in unison. It could be anyone. The guys who delivered pizza from Green Mill. Other vampires. The Ant's book club. Werewolves. Zombies. And, of course, the uninvited guest who'd jumped out the window. So many enemies, so little –
"The other Fiends. I've been feeding them my blood, and they're pissed."
"You've what, and they're what?" I asked, horrified.
Garrett couldn't look at me – never a good sign. "They – they sort of 'woke up,' and now they want to kill you."
"It's this lifestyle you lead," the Ant said smugly. "These things are bound to happen."
"Oh, shut up!" I barked. I actually had to clutch my head; which problem to tackle first? "You couldn't have crashed into the office tomorrow? Or yesterday?"
"You'd better sit down and tell us everything," Sinclair said, reminding me he was the vampire king. "The queen has just been attacked... and now you come bearing tales of murder." Bam. Decision made. We'd deal with what Garrett had done first.
So take that, dead stepmother.
Chapter 3
Like I wasn't dreading the coming winter already. These days I was always cold, even on the hottest day in July; November was going to suck rocks. What I wanted to do was adjust to married life, set up house (well, the house had been set up for more than a year, thanks to Jessica and her big bucks, but I was still finding places for our wedding gifts), finish writing thank-you notes (yawn), and settle down to the job of raising BabyJon, my half brother and legal ward. (You remember, the whole my dad and the Ant being dead thing.)
Yep, yep. Everything was normal. I was a newlywed and would-be parent. Nothing wrong or weird here. Nope.
" – felt responsible," Garrett was yakking, which in itself was hard to get used to. He'd gone from slobbering Fiend to monosyllabic boyfriend (Antonia-the-werewolf's stud... more on that later) to verbose old vampire. The fact that he looked about twenty-three didn't fool anybody. "So I began visiting them. It didn't seem right that I was back to myself while they were – were – well. You know."
Fine time for his newfound vocabulary to fail him! But we knew. The old king – the one I'd killed to take the crown – liked to torture newly risen vampires by refusing to let them feed. After a few months of this treatment, they went crazy. Worse than crazy – feral. Forgot everything they ever knew, or could know, about being human. Think dangerous, rabid wolves, wearing L.L. Bean.
