The Victorious Redemption Complete Series Boxed Set, page 21
Jasmine stood near the back of the group, keeping some distance. A few of the gathered turned her way, then quickly turned back. None of them appeared to recognize that the woman they were there to mourn stood in their company as a revenant.
Qadir’s words echoed inside her head.
Zombie.
She shook her head, turning her focus to the reverend. He began his service, dealing out the usual spiel as he would for someone who had made their transcendence into the afterlife. He spoke psalms and offered prayers. At the point where he allowed those who knew her to come forward and speak their words, there was an unsurprising lack of people ready to testify about her life.
Out of the two that did, one of them, Ruby, her editor at the paper, spoke alarmingly little. Her words were measured, careful, and expertly crafted in the same way she ran her paper. They said a lot without saying anything important and served the platitudes you’d expect to hear.
The other was a mousy-faced woman Jasmine recognized as one of the other writers, Emma Kingsley. She used to work on the fashion column. Emma took her place and declared how much she loved Jasmine, how good friends they had been, and how there would be a big hole left in her heart every time she looked at her empty chair.
Jasmine rolled her eyes. This was all for attention. Everything always was with Emma. She liked to be the center of it, the one who was grieving, loving, or laughing. Emma wanted to be the center of the conversation, now and always.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The priest wrapped up the ceremony by scattering dirt around the headstone already set in place for Jasmine. It felt strange seeing her name printed on the stone, the years of her life reduced to only numbers with a simple phrase beneath.
Loved by her family.
She wondered if that was the generic epitaph the funeral directors arranged for those without family or friends to create a custom message.
Jasmine hung around, observing the handful of gathered people. A few she recognized from work, but most of them were acquaintances of acquaintances, even a couple of people she didn’t know.
She stared at the stones as she eavesdropped on conversations, hearing her name mentioned in snippets of chatter, but not with the tone of someone the speakers would truly miss.
“She always was an enigma, that one,” a woman with brown hair and a bright yellow jacket muttered to her friend. The bright color seemed a strange choice to wear to a memorial service. “Would never let anyone get that close. I’m sure she was lovely, but I don’t know if she left anyone behind who would care that she’s gone.”
Jasmine’s cheeks burned.
“Awful though, what happened to her, isn’t it?” the woman’s friend returned. “I’m not sure I believe the story your boss popped in the paper. Just…‘missing?’ Simple as that? Taken, then confirmed dead by local authorities. It’s a shame. Once people pass that forty-eight-hour window, there’s no way they’re coming back, not without some kind of miracle.”
Jasmine smirked. You don’t know the half of it. She sobered. On the other hand, that adds anecdotal evidence to my premise of a major coverup.
Soon, the crowd began to thin. The reverend returned to his church. After those who stood there laid down a collection of supermarket flowers, the remainder of the grieving finally left.
Jasmine was alone with her tombstone.
She knelt on the damp ground, then retracted her umbrella, allowing the rain to soak her face. She pulled back her hood. It felt cleansing. Cold, but not unpleasant. She swiped her hand across her face, hoping the rain would mask her tears as she recalled her old life, how she had left nothing behind.
Her mother was gone. She had no friends to speak of. Even “loved by her family” seemed like the final lie as she thought of the pack she had never truly known and the father who’d abandoned her.
She combed her fingers through her hair, peeling stray locks away from her face. Tears fell from her cheeks. She wiped her hand over the tombstone, the whole experience surreal, the final confirmations that, yes, the Jasmine of three weeks ago had truly died, and in her place was this metamorphosed replica, someone she was still struggling to know.
She was so focused on the tombstone and her internal grief that for a while, she wasn’t aware of the woman behind her. Her footsteps had made no noise, and she stood quietly. Her small frame had a slight hunch on her back. A raincoat was pulled tight over her head as she looked down at the gravestone.
It wasn’t until the woman’s shoulders shook with sobs that Jasmine turned to face her, almost falling back as she looked into a face she couldn’t believe was there.
The older woman looked down at her in surprise and wiped tears from her eyes with frail, shaking hands. She exhibited a wooden quality, as though someone had carved her into a totem, the wrinkles and edges deep and grooved in her face.
She easily could have been an elder of some old tribe that Jasmine had read about or seen in films.
The woman reached down, offering a tree-like hand. “Are you okay, dear?”
Jasmine searched her eyes for recognition but could find none.
Had the change been so severe that even her grandmother didn’t recognize her?
“Thank you,” Jasmine replied uncertainly.
Despite her elderly state, her grandmother was strong. Jasmine stood there awkwardly, remembering the last time she had seen her all those years ago.
After her mother’s death, Jasmine and her grandmother had drifted apart. Jasmine grew into a mature adult and started her new life alone. Her grandmother—who had never truly warmed to Jasmine despite her best qualities—retreated into a shell and led her own life.
“It’s truly awful, isn’t it?” Her grandmother offered with a sadness that surprised Jasmine. “To be taken so young.”
“Did you know her well?” Jasmine tried to play the part of a stranger.
A gentle smile played on her lips. “You could say that.” She turned without another word and made her way beneath a large oak. Its leaves fanned out in all directions, providing a modicum of cover from the rain.
Her grandmother sat, and after a moment of hesitation, Jasmine followed.
She took a seat beside her grandmother, and for a while, the pair were silent. Jasmine sensed the woman’s sadness, which exuded from her as well.
A thousand questions pressed against her lips, wanting to burst out. She wished she could speak to her grandmother the way she’d always hoped, to get answers, find out how she had been, and why she’d been quiet for so many years.
But she wasn’t that Jasmine anymore. The old Jasmine had died, and in her place was this new version. It was already hard enough trying to find new friends and not go back to her old life, to not raise suspicions lest she somehow pulled them into her and Deshawne’s drama.
What she wanted more than anything else right now was a friend. Maybe even someone from her old life to bridge that connection and give her a little bit of what she once was. What would she say to her grandmother? What would her grandmother say back?
As all of these questions fluttered around in Jasmine’s head and memories of her grandmother’s familiar scent filled her mind, she looked up at the sky. The clouds were lifting, and the sun’s gentle glow was peeking through the clouds.
She turned to her grandmother at the same time her grandmother turned her way. The older woman looked Jasmine up and down, and her nose wrinkled as she took a couple of deep, determined sniffs.
Jasmine froze, unsure what else to do. Her grandmother faced forward. A soft smile played on her lips as tears returned to her eyes. “I’ve missed you so much.”
Her grandmother’s voice cracked as she fought back the emotion.
Jasmine avoided looking at her, not used to egregious displays of emotion. “I think you’re about the only one.” She sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. Her lip wobbled.
For the first time in weeks, she felt a genuine sensation of warmth flood her. “I think you might be the only one who still recognizes me and maybe the only one from my former life who really used to know me.”
“I knew you even before you were born, darling. Nothing’s going to change that.”
Jasmine considered this, unable to hold back the tears. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve got a hell of a story for you. I wouldn’t even know where to start, let alone think you’d believe a word of what I have to say.”
Her grandmother scooted closer with pained grace. She fixed Jasmine with her gaze, then placed a finger on her chin. That warm smile appeared on her face. A smile Jasmine hadn’t seen in years.
“Try me.”
MICHAEL’S AUTHOR NOTES
JUNE 9, 2022
Thank you for not only reading this book but these author notes as well!
What the hell? A zombie story, Michael?
Yes, a zombie story.
So, I’m over fifty years old, and I have two parents alive. One is my dad, and the other is my stepmom, who has been in my life for fifty of my fifty-something-something years.
Now, practically none of my stories have character types my mom (Jo Lynn Anderle) has any interest in.
Magic users? Nope.
Vampires? Nope.
Barbarians? Nope.
Witches? Nope.
Ghosts? No. Well, maybe.
She loves old cemeteries and ghost stories, so I suppose she might be interested in these. However, for the most part, my ghost stories have more explosions and gunfights in them than the ghost stories she might normally enjoy.
BUT…I was chatting with her a while ago, and she mentioned she likes zombie stories. Right on!
I can build a set of zombie stories for her, I figured.
The only problem? Zombie stories as a genre don’t sell all that well. Mind you, this is a general statement, not a blanket statement that ALL zombie stories don’t sell.
But you know what does sell well? Werewolves.
Werewolf stories sell really well. In fact, werewolf stories sell better (once again, in general) than vampire stories, which is a real slap to readers like me who are Team Vampire over Team Werewolf.
This isn’t to say I don’t love werewolf characters. I do like them, as evidenced by Nathan Lowell being in Death Becomes Her – Book 01 of The Kurtherian Gambit (the first book I wrote.)
Anyway, my mom wanted a zombie story, and I needed to be able to sell it. So, I set about creating a reason I could create a story for my mother that should sell. Then…
I got to writing.
Once I finished the opening scene, I felt I had something. It was a bit darker than I normally build out, but it could be a lot of fun.
I hope you like this character and how she redeems herself from the sins of her father.
Talk to you in the next story.
Ad Aeternitatem,
Michael Anderle
MORE STORIES with Michael newsletter HERE:
https://michael.beehiiv.com/
PACK RULES
THE VICTORIOUS REDEMPTION BOOK TWO
CHAPTER ONE
Training
The cocky smile on Jasmine’s face slipped as another blow struck her cheek. Her eyes rolled back, and her head whirled as a fresh wave of pain rocked her. She stepped back to regain her balance and set her footing to brace herself as a punch caught her in the ribcage.
In Jasmine’s former life, she might have expelled a lungful of air, but now there was no air to give. No heart beat inside her chest.
There are some advantages to death.
Jasmine tensed her stomach and collected herself as the fist slammed into her flesh, then she returned a blow to the man’s chin.
She thought back to her first fight in her new body and smiled at how clumsy she had been. Her limbs had felt alien. She was nowhere near perfect yet, but at least she was learning to hold her own against an attacker.
The man glared at her with fury in his eyes, desperate to drop her. He came at Jasmine again with a flurry of punches. She tried to fend them off but wasn’t as successful as she’d have liked.
She guarded her face. Her elbows were out, blocking the worst of the blows. During a brief pause in the onslaught, she lowered her arms and tried to strike the man in the face, hoping to dizzy him the same way he had rattled her.
He was faster and took the opportunity to smack her square in the nose.
Jasmine recoiled and stumbled back. Something had crunched under his fist. Despite lingering memories of her former fear, she knew the broken bones would heal quickly.
She twitched her nose and felt a jolt of pain. Inside her skull, she heard the bone meld itself back together. The mingled odors of blood, sweat, and rust filled her head.
Determination coursed through her as she looked at the man. The corner of his lips turned up in a smile as he beckoned her forward.
Rage drove her as she rushed him. He blocked the first few punches, but she managed a couple to his face, his chest, and the side of his arm. He found an opening and smacked her in the ear. Tinnitus bloomed as a high-pitched whistle shrilled nearby.
She knew he wasn’t stronger than her. One thing she had learned over the last few weeks was that her newfound strength was a favorite among the many superpowers she had developed. She could hold her own against most mortals—especially those untrained against the undead.
Despite all that, this man had the necessary skills to match her. He was quick and slid through her attacks like a snake. Warm satisfaction filled her when she landed a solid hit that pushed him back. His gaze unfocused, and he shook his head to clear it. His expression showed his determination.
She punched again. He dodged and returned three rapid uppercuts to her jaw that made her teeth clack together.
As her head rocked back, Jasmine had an idea.
She studied him. He kept his long arms in front of him, ready to defend or strike. Perhaps if she could get closer…
She rushed toward him and swept aside his punches to bring him into a clinch. With their heads together she delivered blow after blow to his stomach, hearing a satisfying wheeze with each one as it drove the air from his lungs.
Is that a wheeze? Or is he laughing?
Suddenly the world moved so quickly that Jasmine lost all sense of what was happening. A leg hooked around the back of hers, he twisted, and the world keeled over. Jasmine slapped onto the floor on her back with an involuntary grunt. A small cloud of dust puffed up, and she wondered what she was lying in. When was the last time someone cleaned this place?
Long lines of fluorescence blinded her from the ceiling.
“How the hell do you do that?” she asked.
He tumbled on top of her and fought for the hold, but Jasmine resisted and wrestled with him. Despite the strength she had inherited with her death, this man knew her and her weak spots. He wriggled on top of her and manipulated her limbs in a way that scared Jasmine.
Her mind flashed back to the car dealership, where the men had strung her up in a shed out back. She remembered the haunting moment she had discovered, thanks to Qadir, that she could chew through her flesh and bone to make her escape.
She strained against the man’s weight, but his knees pinned her arms to the floor. He wrapped himself around her and hooked his arm around her throat to lock in the chokehold.
Jasmine expected to gasp and splutter. Lifelong experience had taught her what happened when something denied that life-giving airflow. Except she wasn’t a human anymore, was she? She was a revenant. She hadn’t yet discovered what magic kept her alive despite her frozen heart, cold body, gaunt form, and absence of breath, but she knew his attempt to choke her was a fruitless endeavor.
He tightened his grip, no doubt expecting her to fall limp in his arms, but she held her own. She couldn’t talk, thanks to the constriction on her larynx, but her inability to breathe didn’t bother her. He struggled and squeezed tighter, trying desperately to end her life.
When she was still wriggling in his arms after a few minutes, he gave up and tried a new tactic. He spun on top of her, took her arm in a full-body clutch, and yanked—hard.
This time Jasmine did feel the pain as the tendons around her shoulder socket stretched to their limit. She tried to free herself, but he was fast. He pressed his feet against her neck and body until the arm pulled free from its socket with an unsettling pop.
A small cry of pain escaped her. It sounded more like she had given herself a paper cut than had her shoulder dislocated. It was already healing, pulling itself back into alignment as the tendons repaired themselves.
The man’s eyes widened.
She spun around, flailed her leg, and caught him in the side. The blow fell a couple of inches from his groin, and when he twisted his hips to protect his squishy bits, she pulled free. They both rose. Jasmine’s injured arm dangled while it healed itself, but she delivered a volley of blows with the other.
She imagined what the scene must look like to an observer and almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Her opponent smirked as he watched her.
She advanced, keeping up her attack until he tripped and sprawled back onto the floor. She took advantage of this stumble and leaped on top of him. She had to wriggle and writhe to keep him pinned and prevent him from doing more damage to her body.
He was faster. He grabbed her arm and clutched around her legs, then twisted and slammed her to her back.
It happened so fast that Jasmine forgot to tuck her head, and the soft place at the back of her skull smacked hard on the cold concrete. She knew if she didn’t move quickly it would all be over. She pushed herself up with her good arm, but it was too late.
He saw what she was attempting and sprang toward her with a sick smile. He grabbed her good arm and drove his knee into her elbow with a sharp crunch.
Jasmine was limp. One arm remained separated from its socket, unable to obey signals from her brain. The other had twisted to an unnatural angle with a shattered elbow. She took pointless breaths and listened to her body heal itself as she stared up at the lights. Not for the first time, she wondered how she had ended up here.
