Undead and unfinished, p.1

Undead and Unfinished, page 1


Undead and Unfinished

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

Larger Font   Reset Font Size   Smaller Font   Night Mode Off   Night Mode

Undead and Unfinished

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page



  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

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75


  Titles by MaryJanice Davidson














  Titles by MaryJanice Davidson and Anthony Alongi








  (with Laurell K. Hamilton, Rebecca York, Eileen Wilks)


  (with Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, Angela Knight, Vickie Taylor)


  (with Maggie Shayne, Angela Knight, Jacey Ford)


  (with Janelle Denison, Nina Bangs)



  (with Janelle Denison, Nina Bangs)


  (with P. C. Cast, Gena Showalter, Susan Grant)


  (with Angela Knight, Virginia Kantra, Sunny)


  (with Emma Holly, Vickie Taylor, Catherine Spangler)


  MYSTERIA LANE (with P. C. Cast, Gena Showalter, Susan Grant)


  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, andincidents 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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2010 by MaryJanice Alongi.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Davidson, MaryJanice.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18854-5

  1. Taylor, Betsy (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Sinclair, Eric (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Vampires—Fiction. 4. Hell—Fiction. 5. Thanksgiving Day—Fiction. I. Title. PS3604.A949U’.6—dc22



  For Sarah and Sherrilyn and Jen and Lisa

  and Vicky and Marissa,

  who helped me bring my bad self

  back to my bad self,

  and never once asked me for anything.


  Okay, so, at the end of the day, when it’s time to write a book, it’s just me and the computer ... me, glaring balefully at same; computer refusing to make eye contact in the childish way it has.

  (I should probably rewrite that: it should be the computer and me, right? Cuz I’m tryin’ to write good n’ stuff. Enh. I’ve already lost interest.)

  But! For me to have the time to sit my big white butt down in the seat and get the work done? Tons of people help with that. And since I willfully ignore them most of the time, when I’m not figuring out how to frame them for felony assault, I’ll go on ahead and drop a few names.

  First, many thanks to my valiant yet self-effacing assistant, Tracy Fritze. The poor woman no doubt assumed, well over a year ago, that it’d be a typical office job. Working for a writer was probably like working for an accountant: it sounded important but was ultimately mind-numbingly dull.

  Sure, her workplace was my very own home, but how much different would it be from driving to an office three days a week?

  Tracy likely assumed her duties would fall along the lines of word processing, setting up meetings, arranging interviews, proofing ARCs, booking speaking engagements, working with copyeditors, and occasionally running tornado drills.

  Instead, the poo
r woman has been forced, in pretty rapid succession, to endure: being greeted by my pantsless son on more than one occasion, being interviewed by a German magazine (them: “How terrific is it to work for the MaryJanice Davidson?” Tracy: “Um ... ”), fighting off our overly affectionate dogs, enduring the smells of McDonald’s chicken nuggets and pots of chocolate Malt O’Meal when she’s trying to eat like a grown-up (and set me an example of same), and ceaselessly trying to encourage me to sit down to make decisions (on PR products, on book signings, on answering reader questions, on turning in interview questions the day I agreed to do so, on why I shouldn’t wolf down a half dozen Reese’s Cups at 9:30 a.m.) like a grown-up.

  Not to mention being locked out of my house when I’ve crawled back into bed with a migraine (see above: greeted by pantsless son: “Hi, Tracy. Mom’s sick. Can I have some Malt O’Meal?”), and holding her ground when I ruthlessly set the dogs upon her (I found my dogs are especially fond of her if I rub bacon grease into her shoes while she’s hard at work in the office).

  Tracy is an assistant as the dictionary defines it: she contributes to the fulfillment of a need; she assumes some of my responsibilities. She rescues me from the minutiae that nearly everyone has to endure if they want to be a functioning member of society. She’s smart, she’s quick, she never has to be told anything twice, she’s discreet (nobody knew about my pantsless son or Malt O’Mealgate until I stuck it right in my acknowledgments page). Also, she smells terrific.

  Thanks are also due, as always, to the awesomest of awesome husbands, Anthony Alongi (he also cowrites the Jennifer Scales series with me). He tirelessly reads, suggests, edits, mocks, enrages, inspires, and annoys. Without him, there’s absolutely nothing for me.

  My folks and sister, for being completely unwavering in their support, one hundred percent of the time. They wouldn’t abandon that stance if I stuck a gun in their ear. Do not ask me how I know that.

  The Magic Widows, who have endured me for years and pretend that I’m worth the trouble.

  The best of agents, Ethan Ellenberg, who paid me the ultimate compliment of calling me low maintenance. That was a wonderful lie for him to tell!

  The always terrific Cindy Hwang, who reads my book suggestions and synopses, edits my manuscripts, exudes copious enthusiasm for same, and doesn’t smack herself on the forehead when I can see it, or hear it. (Though I do occasionally hear odd background sounds when I’m on the phone with her.)

  And to Leis Pederson, kick-ass assistant editor, who is repeatedly forced to track me down and corner me like a rat to get edits out of me, but does it with such style I feel wanted, not stalked.

  Thanks also to the Yahoos, my fans on Facebook, the readers kind enough to write to me, and the readers who don’t go near Facebook or the Web, who don’t have computers but who write to me, care of my publisher, with real pens on real paper. (I feel bad I received one such snail mail and instantly assumed, as comedian Jim Gaffigan suggested, that someone had been kidnapped.)

  I write for myself—I always have. I think if you write for other people, the end result is something of a cheat, for you and for them.

  But you guys make the writing that much more fun, for which I am continually humbled and slavishly grateful.


  Winter 2009

  Author’s Note

  I’ve got nothing against Claes Oldenburg or his wife, Coosje van Bruggen. And I’ve got nothing against the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden.

  But at the end of the day, it’s just a giant spoon.

  A spoon!

  The Story So Far

  Betsy (“Please don’t call me Elizabeth”) Taylor was run over by a Pontiac Aztek almost three years ago. She woke up the queen of the vampires and in dazzling succession (but no real order), bit her friend Detective Nick Berry, moved from a Minnesota suburb to a mansion in St. Paul, solved various murders, attended the funerals of her father and stepmother, became her half brother’s guardian, still avoids the room housing the Book of the Dead (Book of the Dead, noun: the vampire bible written by an insane vampire, which causes madness if read too long in one sitting), cured her best friend’s cancer, visited her alcoholic grandfather (twice), solved a number of kidnappings, realized her husband/ king, Eric Sinclair, could read her thoughts (she could always read his), found out the Fiends had been up to no good (Fiend, noun: a vampire given only animal [dead] blood, a vampire who quickly goes feral).

  Also, roommate Antonia, a werewolf from Cape Cod, took a bullet in the brain for Betsy, saving her life. The stories about bullets not hurting vampires are not true; plug enough lead into brain matter and that particular denizen of the undead will never get up again. Garrett, Antonia’s lover, killed himself the instant he realized she was dead.

  As if this wasn’t enough of a buzzkill, Betsy soon found herself summoned to Cape Cod, Massachusetts, where Antonia’s Pack leaders lived. Though they were indifferent to the caustic werewolf in life, now that Antonia was dead in service to a vampire, several thousand pissed-off werewolves had just a few questions.

  While Betsy, Sinclair, BabyJon, and Jessica were on the Cape answering these questions, Marc, Laura, and Tina remained in Minnesota (Tina to help run things while her monarchs were away, Marc because he couldn’t get the vacation time, and Laura because she was quietly cracking up).

  They hadn’t been gone long before Tina disappeared and Marc noticed that devil worshippers kept showing up in praise of Laura, the Antichrist.

  In a muddled, misguided attempt to help (possibly brought on by the stress of his piss-poor love life ... an ER doc, Marc worked hours that would make a union-less sweatshop manager cringe), he suggested to Laura that she put her “minions” to work helping in soup kitchens and such.

  As sometimes happens, Laura embraced the suggestion with tremendous zeal. Then she took it even further, eventually deciding her deluded worshippers could help get rid of all sorts of bad elements ... loan officers, bail jumpers, contractors who overcharge, and ... vampires.

  Meanwhile, on the Cape, Betsy spent time fencing with Michael Wyndham, the Pack leader responsible for three hundred thousand werewolves worldwide, and babysitting Lara Wyndham, future Pack leader and current first-grader.

  With Sinclair’s help (and Jessica’s cheerful-yet-grudging babysitting of BabyJon), Betsy eventually convinced the werewolves she’d meant Antonia no harm, that she in fact had liked and respected the woman, that she was sorry Antonia was dead and would try to help Michael in the future ... not exactly a debt, more an acknowledgment that because she valued Antonia and mourned her loss, she stood ready to assist Antonia’s Pack.

  Also, Betsy discovered that BabyJon, her half brother and ward, was impervious to paranormal or magical interference. This was revealed when a juvenile werewolf Changed for the first time and attacked the baby, who found the entire experience amusing, after which he casually spit up milk and took a nap.

  Though the infant could be hurt, he could not be hurt by a werewolf’s bite, a vampire’s sarcasm, a witch’s spell, a fairy’s curse, a leprechaun’s dandruff ... like that. Betsy was amazed—she’d suspected there was something off about the baby, but had no idea what it could be.

  Sinclair, who until now had merely tolerated the infant, instantly became proudly besotted (“That’s my son, you know”) and began plotting—uh, thinking about the child’s education and other requirements.

  Back at the ranch (technically the mansion on Summit Avenue in St. Paul), Laura had more or less cracked up. She’d fixed it so Marc couldn’t call for help (when he discovered their cell phones no longer worked, he snuck off to find another line, only to be relentlessly followed by devil worshippers, who politely but firmly prevented this), and she and her followers were hunting vampires.

  Betsy finally realized something was wrong (a badly garbled text secretly sent by a hysterical Marc), and they returned to the mansion in time to be in the middle of a vampires-versus-Satanists smackdown.

  Betsy won, but o
nly because Laura pulled the killing blow at the last moment.

  People went their separate ways, for a while. And nobody felt like talking.

  Three months later, there still has been no real discussion about the ominous events over the summer.

  I’m here on the ground with my nose in it since the whole thing began. I’ve nurtured every sensation man’s been inspired to have. I cared about what he wanted and I never judged him. Why? Because I never rejected him. In spite of all his imperfections, I’m a fan of man.


  Can you imagine what it was like? Ten billion years

  providing a place for dead mortals to torture them-

  selves? And like all masochists, they called the shots.

  “Burn me.” “Freeze men.” “Eat me.” “Hurt me.” And we

  did. Why do they blame me for all their little failings?

  They use my name as if I spent my entire day sitting

  on their shoulders, forcing them to commit acts they

  would otherwise find repulsive. “The Devil made me

  do it.” I have never made any one of them do anything.

  Never. They live their own tiny lives. I do not live their

  lives for them.


  It’s not easy being the Barbra Streisand of evil, you know.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22
Turn Navi Off
Turn Navi On
Scroll Up