Undeadly

Any jerk can have a SEER machine and spirit slaves. But there’s something worse than being stuck to a SEER. You could end up a soul shadow. I totally read about this on the internet. A sheut heka can trap the soul, peel off the sheut and... Ew, I know, right? A sheut is the darkest, most awful part of you, sliced away from morals, conscience and empathy. So you’re like zero-calorie evil, you know? That’s why it’s illegal. I don’t know why there are laws and junk about it nowadays, because as far as I know, there aren’t sheut hekas around. There haven’t been for, like, centuries. I’ve never seen a sheut, but Dem says some exist. Leftovers from way back when there were sheut hekas all over the place. And he says that sheuts can only manifest in the darkness. Shadows need shadows, Molly. Dark needs dark.

Sometimes, Dem is weird.

Anyway...like I said, a lot of people opted for an AZD and chose cremation. Signing a piece of paper saying you didn’t want your corpse zombified didn’t mean thieves wouldn’t steal your freshly buried body. Black-market zombification was big business. Bodies were stolen, shipped off to crappy zombie-making factories and then sold to people who did not read literature regarding the humane care of the walking dead.

Zombies didn’t have souls. Okay, most zombies didn’t have souls. Every so often during a transition, a deadling would wake up with its memories, personality and humanity intact. Probably because the ka heka messed up and put the whole soul back in, or something. Only, a dead body is still a dead body, you know what I mean? Yeah. Gives me the shivers, too. Even though necromancy has been around since forever, it was really the ancient Egyptians who figured out how to separate the soul into the ib, sheut, ren, ba and ka. To make a zombie, you kept the ka inside the body and released the other parts to the afterlife. Only the ka was needed for reanimation.

It’s kinda complicated.

Zombies work mundane jobs and understand simple commands; they don’t need to sleep or to eat, either. Okay. They don’t need to eat, but they love sticking things down their craw. They have unceasing hunger even though they don’t require food. Part of raising the dead includes creating an appetite suppressant. That costs extra, and you gotta reenergize the magic annually, which is why some people chose zombie supplements instead of necro-incantations.

Not feeding a zombie isn’t like not feeding your cat. He. Will. Eat. You. And your cat. People who forget to pick up a case of Ghoul-AID sometimes don’t live to regret it. Capisce?

Finally! I reached the end of the hallway, which took forever because Mortimer wasn’t exactly good at the walking thing. I unlocked the door, waited sixty years for the zombie to shuffle inside and locked the door again. When you’re dealing with zombies, security is important.

We were standing in a tiny foyer. Calling it a foyer was stupid. It was just a little white room with a couple of plastic chairs. I let go of Mortimer’s hand. This was the only way to get to the sahnetjar, and I still had another door to unlock.

“Stay here.”

Zombies don’t often respond, but when they do, they groan. I’ve never met one that can actually talk, although Demetrius says they exist. Sometimes, I think he likes yanking my chain. A talking zombie? For real? Yeah, right.

Mortimer stared at the ground, looking like the most pathetic zombie ever. I sighed as I headed toward the door at the other end of the room. I wasn’t much for my sister’s whole save-the-zombies effort, but I had to admit I wouldn’t mind seeing Mortimer put to rest. I’d bet his wife ran him just as ragged when he was alive. At least now, he didn’t know it.

I tucked poor Mortimer’s leathery limb under the crook of my arm, pulled my keys out of my pocket and unlocked the door that led to sahnetjar.

I heard a noise behind me. Startled, I turned and found Mortimer just inches away, his jaw cracking as his mouth opened impossibly wide. I dropped the keys (duh), backed against the door and held out his severed arm like an old, bent sword.

Then Mortimer tried to eat me.

Chapter 2

“The only way to survive a zombie attack is if you see it coming. Running won’t do you much good since zombies have the unsettling ability to jump long distances. They’re also strong, unintelligent and conscienceless. If one attacks, the best thing you can do is go for the kneecaps. Once it’s down, you have to remove its head. No, really. Zombies are relentless, especially when dealing with the Hunger.”

~Worst-Case Situations, Paranormal Edition

I drew on my powers. Magic tingled in my hands as I aimed them at Mortimer. A ka heka was the most common kind of necromancer and I was only in training, but even so, I still had some control over zombies.

Too bad Mortimer didn’t know it.

He grabbed me with his one good arm and jerked me into his stank embrace. Whew. He probably hadn’t been washed since he died. Okay. I could handle this. So what if he was strong? And smelled as if he’d been rolling around in poop?

I aimed my magic at him again. Black sparkles drifted down like lazy snowflakes and melted away.

That was bad. My heart skipped a beat, and icy fear dripped down my spine.

Mortimer’s horribly large mouth descended...and panic exploded. I struggled harder against him, but it was like trying to wrestle with a marble statue. His teeth clamped onto my shoulder. Ow!

Pain and terror clawed through me. Oh, my God. I was gonna get eaten by a zombie. Before I turned sixteen. Before I had my party. Before Rick kissed me.

Then I was yanked backward.

“Bamo!” cried a new voice, much stronger and deeper and more Jamaican than my own. Demetrius! Relief tangled with my hysteria.

The zombie stopped attacking and cocked his head as if he was a cute cocker spaniel instead of a dead dude in the grips of the Hunger. Demetrius dragged me through the door, shut it and barred it. He whirled me around.

“You okay, child?” He took the zombie arm, and for a second, I didn’t let go. Then I realized what I was doing and gave him the limb.

My shoulder throbbed and my shirt was ripped. I looked down in shock. “He bit me!”

Demetrius led me to a table and lifted me by the waist. For an old guy, he sure was muscular. He pushed the material over my shoulder and peered at the wound. He walked to the medicine cabinet on the other side of the table. I thought about Mrs. Woodbine scarfing down all that biscotti while her husband had been trying to scarf me down. Bitch.

Demetrius returned with a jar of ointment that looked like black tar and smelled like puke. I crinkled my nose.

“Where’s the other stuff? The ointment we sell to our customers? Ugh! What is that?”

“’Dis de good stuff. My own concoction. Gonna heal the bite in no time.” He rubbed the cold, greasy gel into the place where Mortimer’s disgusting teeth had gouged my skin. “Zombie bites are nasty business.”

A bite or a scratch doesn’t turn you into a zombie. I mean, I know every zombie movie ever made says different. Gah! Who thought of that ridiculousness? Soooo unbelievable. Anyway. Zombie mouths are filthy and filled with germs and all kinds of ick. An untreated bite could get infected quickly, and boom, you’re lying in a hospital bed breathing through a tube.

“You know bamo isn’t exactly a necro incantation,” I said. Not that you needed words to perform magic. Sometimes, using a word or phrase was helpful to get the focus going, but if you had any heka gift, you could access it pretty easily and without acting like you just graduated from Hogwarts.

“It’s Jamaican for ‘go away,’” said Demetrius, his lips splitting into a gap-toothed grin. “You know it’s not the words, but the power you give them.” He glanced at my torn shirt. “Go home and change. I’ll deal with Mr. Woodbine.”

“Okay.” At least my dad wasn’t here to fret over the zombie bite. If he’d been around for Mortimer’s attack, I’d be on my way to an emergency room right now. Dad panic was like, ten levels above regular people panic, so good thing my dad was up in Reno checking out locations for a second zomporium. Unfortunately, he’d promised that he would be back tomorrow. For my b-day. Sigh. He’d said he wouldn’t interfere with my party, but I wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay away. He was itching to play songs from ’80s movies soundtracks. Oh, yeah, I’m named after Molly Ringwald. In particular, because my dad totally crushed on her. Ugh. I’m telling you now that if he plays anything from Pretty in Pink, I’m throwing myself off the roof.

“Do you want me to call da Empress?”

That’s how Demetrius refers to Nonna Gina. Like everyone else, he has a healthy respect for my grandmother. It isn’t just the rolling pin, either. She just has a way about her. A scary, obey-me way.

I shook my head. “I’d rather walk home than get into a car with her.”

In Nevada, you have to be fifteen and a half to get a driver’s permit. I’d counted the days until I was officially 15.5 and went off to get my permit (under parental protest, I might add). I’d finished the required driver’s education courses over the summer and kept a clean driving record. After all, I had to drive with Dad or Nonna, which was as fun as it sounded. As in, not.

But on Monday, I would go get my driver’s license.

Woot!

It was only three weeks into the school year, and soon I’d have my own ride. Well, Nonna’s ride. She had this huge boat of a car that she didn’t drive very often, mostly because she didn’t see so well anymore and hit stuff like mailboxes and curbs. I’d saved up some money, but nowhere near enough to get a decent car. Rick Widdenstock had turned sixteen over the summer. The first day of school, he’d arrived in a new black-and-silver Mustang. That car had just upped his hotness factor. I’m aware of how shallow that makes me sound, but hey, I can live with it.

Demetrius helped me off the table. “If the wound’s not healin’, you tell me.”

I nodded. A zombie bite was nothing to blow off. I’d just have to figure out a way around the stink. I looked toward the barred door and saw the shadow of Mortimer flickering against the frosted glass. “What are you going to do to him?”

“Put him to rest, child. Like he want.”

I frowned. “He’s a zombie, Dem. How can you know what he wants?”

Demetrius shook his head, and I felt like I’d disappointed him. Hey, I paid attention during our lessons. I just didn’t remember anything about zombies having feelings or thoughts. ’Cause they don’t.

“You don’t know everything yet, child.”

Well, duh. “Mrs. Woodbine is gonna be pissed.”

Anger slashed his expression. “Don’t you worry. I deal with her.” He patted my non-injured shoulder. “Go on now.”

The sahnetjar was made up of several rooms. Zombification took time and skill and there were stages to the process. The room we stood in now with its gleaming silver table, wash area and cabinets was used for assessment. The other rooms included the materials needed for each part of the zombifying. So far, Ally and I had been allowed to train only in the first stage, which was the part where we took out organs, rubbed the body with netjer—also called natron—wrapped it loosely with linens and prepared it to receive its ka, what the ancient Egyptians had called the life spark. Soul work is tricky. The zombification process has to be completed within seven days of death. After that, there is no getting the ka back to reanimate the body.

Sheesh. You didn’t think it was easy, did you?

Like all necromancers, Ally and I had been born with heka gifts. Probably because Mom was a ka heka. Dad didn’t have any powers. He was just a regular guy.

Mom wasn’t much on actual instruction. She didn’t like us being in the back rooms, and she didn’t really talk about the magic or the process too much. But Dem was a zombification master. He taught us how to draw on the magic and use it, usually with already-made zombies. Ka hekas can control the ka (um...duh), so we can control zombies. Usually. Sometimes, I wondered if Mom would’ve showed us the cool things we were learning from Demetrius.

We had a back door that led to a loading dock, where we took in supplies and bodies. The bay was closed, so I went out the side door. Then I realized my keys were on the floor with Mortimer. Crap. I couldn’t lock it. I dug in my front pocket for my cell phone to call Ally to do it. Then I realized I’d left the phone, along with my purse, at the front desk.

I hesitated.

I did not want to see Mrs. Woodbine, especially not after she found out her husband was done for. Plus, I’d have to explain to Ally about the bite and she would call Dad and he would freak and do something parental like call an ambulance or the National Guard.

No, thanks.

If I hurried, I could get home, use the hide-a-key, change clothes and come back. Ally wouldn’t be thrilled to get stuck in the customer care center, but she’d deal.

Vegas didn’t have seasons. It was hot most of the time, though it cooled down in the winter months. It had snowed only once in my whole life, and that lasted all of two days. September had brought lower temperatures, but it wasn’t jacket weather. I had nothing to cover my ruined shirt or messed-up shoulder.

I strode out of the parking lot to the stoplight. It took forever to cross Warm Springs Road. If I’d been wearing sneakers instead of my fabulous black ankle boots, I would’ve jogged.

I walked past a shopping center and then I was clipping down the sidewalk that ran in front of the school grounds. The school was set on the other side of a large parking area. The sports arena was up on the left. I was almost to the edge of the structure when I heard my name being called.

“Hey, Molly!”

I looked over my shoulder. I’d just crossed the entrance to the school parking lot, and Rick’s Mustang had just rolled up to exit the lot. He leaned over the center console and peered at me through the open passenger-side window.

“Wanna ride home?”

My heart skipped a beat. I sniffed and grimaced. The salve’s awful smell was still evident, though its stench had lessened. And there was the matter of my ripped shirt. Still, there was no way I was giving up a ride in Rick’s Mustang. Or—and here’s my shallowness showing again—the potential to be seen in Rick’s Mustang.

I opened the door and slid inside. Oh. My. God. New car smell was so delicious. Everything was clean and shiny. I glanced at Rick and saw him check me out. Then his nose wrinkled.

Heat surged to my cheeks. “Sorry,” I said. “I had an accident at work.”

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yeah. It’s just that the medicine is kinda...fragrant.”

Wouldn’t my English teacher, Mrs. Dawson, be proud? Rick grinned, which made me feel warm and squirmy. His blond hair was cut short, his face all angular like a movie star’s. He even had a little dimple in his chin. “No big. I just finished football practice and the showers are under maintenance or something. So I don’t exactly smell like a petunia.”

“Petunia?”

He grinned. “My mother runs a flower shop. It’s almost enough to get my dude card revoked.”

I laughed.

He seemed pleased that he made me giggle and offered another melt-alicious grin. “You live on Grimsby, right?”

I nodded. He looked at me with one eyebrow cocked. “Seat belt.”

I put it on, embarrassed that he’d had to remind me. “It’s the ’rents,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe all the rules I have to follow to keep my ride.”

“Was blood sacrifice involved?”

He laughed as he flipped on the signal and made a right onto Arroyo Grand Boulevard. “Almost.” He glanced at me. “You have to deal with any of that...you know with your powers?”

“Nah. We drink blood only on Thursdays.” Rick’s eyes widened and I smiled. “Joking.”

He chuckled, but I was aware of the tension in his body. I’m a necro, and part of the gig is an über awareness of people’s body language and emotions. I think Rick was a little weirded out by my gift.

It wasn’t like there was a shortage of necromancers in the world, but most people were born without any reaper gifts. Being a necro doesn’t make anyone really special, though. Everyone has to learn about necromancy, about zombies and SEER machines, and even Ancient Egyptian history (required course, like math and science). But it’s not exactly a big deal these days, not like it was waaaaay back. So, reading about necromancy is like reading about the Titanic and World War I. The necros on board that Titanic couldn’t stop it from sinking, but they used their zombies and death magic to help people. And World War I? The American zombies were the reason we saved so many lives on the frontlines.

Anyway. Some necros take themselves too seriously, and wear black and act mysterious. I tried to be normal, but some people were still weirded out by the whole “she touches dead people,” thing.

Whatevs.

I wasn’t too surprised when Rick knew which driveway was mine. He lived in the same neighborhood, although in a bigger house with a killer pool, and we saw each other occasionally. Usually with me walking to school and him catching a ride with his friends, waving as they drove past.

We sat awkwardly for a moment. Then I smiled and said, “Well, you know. Thanks.”

“No prob.” He looked at the house then at me. “Your dad home?”

“Nah. He’s in Reno.” I looked at Rick (sooo cute!) and realized he was waiting for something. For me to...oh. My pulse leapt. “You...uh, wanna come in?”

He turned off the car and slid the keys out of the ignition. “Sure.”

I looked at my empty house and felt my stomach hitch. We would be alone in there. Squee! I was really glad that my uncle Vinnie was at the Zomporium helping Demetrius with the less-than-savory tasks of zombification. Vinnie had been my dad’s older brother and he’d died when I was three. He’d helped Dad start the business and wanted to help even after his death. Mom was the one who’d zombified him. She might’ve sucked as a mom, but she’d been a Class A zombie-maker.

Vinnie was a good zombie, but sometimes I wished I remembered what it was like to have him as an uncle.

I picked up the fake rock hidden in the Angelita daisies that lined the sidewalk up to our house. The rest of the yard was zero-scaped—you know, volcano rocks and cacti. We’d planted the daisies and the fortnight lilies along the walkway because Nonna really liked them. She missed having a garden like she had back in New York. I almost made a comment on them, so Rick would know I was sorta flower savvy, but it seemed like a lame move.

I slid the key out of the bottom of the rock, unlocked the door and then put it back. Rick watched this all without comment. I didn’t want to explain why my purse was still at the Zomporium because I didn’t want to admit to the zombie bite. Hopefully, he just thought I was some kind of klutz and whacked my shoulder or something. I’m glad he hadn’t asked me for details. If my gift freaked him at all, he’d probably bail if he knew I’d almost been zombie chow.

“C’mon.” I led the way into the house.

Rick followed, shutting the door behind him. “I need to change,” I said, looking over my shoulder. I caught Rick checking out my ass. Thank you, jean gods. “You want something to drink?”

“What do you have?” His voice sounded a little rough, but I wasn’t sure if it was from being caught gawking or from lust. Yeah, I said the L word. Necro, remember? His eyes were dilated, his breathing had shortened and a delicious tension filled his muscles. Oh, yeah. He was definitely feeling attracted to me. It’s the body language thing, you know? You have to pay attention to the details, especially when you’re reanimating a corpse. That’s a Dem-ism—and I’ve only heard it 3,000 times or so.

The front door opened into a small foyer. Three feet forward and you were in the living room. We had a sectional, a big-screen television and lots of bookshelves. The patio doors led to the backyard, which sadly had no pool. If you kept going to the right, you’d see the dining room and beyond that, our kitchen.

The hallway to the left of the foyer led to the downstairs bathroom and the master bedroom (that was Nonna’s). The stairs led to the other four bedrooms and another guest bathroom. My room connected to Ally’s via the third bathroom. Yeah. That made getting ready for school the opposite of pleasant, especially since both of us hated mornings. And sharing.

I led Rick into the kitchen and pointed at the fridge. “Take whatever you want. I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks.”

I started to walk away, but Rick looped his fingers around my wrist. He looked at me, his eyes sparkling. “Don’t be gone too long.”

“Promise.” My belly squeezed in excitement. Dad would be so un-thrilled to know I was alone in the house with a b-o-y. Not that he would have to know. Ever. Rick dropped my wrist, gave me another grin and I suppressed the urge to skip through the house.

In my room, I took off my shirt and assessed the damage to my shoulder. It didn’t look too bad. I got a washcloth and wiped some of the goop off and then smeared what was left across the teeth marks. Yuck.

I got out my precious bottle of Dior Addict, which I saved for special occasions, and squirted it along my neck and collarbone. Then I spritzed my wrists. I picked out another shirt, my teal flutter-sleeve with a V-neck, and put it on. It looked pretty good with my jeans. I took a second to brush my hair, which I wore long and straight. It was a boring shade of brown, but I had hazel eyes, which kinda made up for the witchy locks. I also freshened my makeup. Luckily, I had decent skin and didn’t need too much coverage. I wore peach blush on my cheekbones, lightly lined eyes with a smidge of mascara and gloss (Dad put the kibosh on colored lipsticks).

Then I brushed the hell out of my teeth. Just in case.

Finally, I came downstairs, heart racing. I wasn’t sure what to talk about with Rick. We were in a couple classes together, but we didn’t usually run in the same circles. I’d been kinda surprised when he started hanging around me more at school. I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed, either. My friends thought it was way cool, but Mina Hamilton, head cheerleader, perfect princess and Rick’s ex-girlfriend, did not. She’d been giving me dirty looks, making snide comments within earshot and “accidentally” pushing me aside when sashaying down the hall. Her mean-girl attention scared me worse than dealing with hungry Mortimer. Surviving a zombie attack was easy; getting out unscathed from a Mina attack was not.

Rick was standing in the living room, staring at our bookshelves. He held a can of 7UP and he took a sip as he studied the shelf filled with necro books.

“Hey.”

He turned, checked out my blouse (and okay, my boobs) and smiled. “Hey.”

He put the soda on the coffee table and stretched out his hand. Heart pounding, I took it and he drew me into his arms.

Holy. Freaking. Anubis.

“You’re very pretty,” he said. I smelled mints and the tang of 7UP. My heart beat faster still and my knees went all mooshy.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

His blue eyes darkened. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Remember when I said I had no social life? Dad had rules about me and boys—as in never the twain shall meet (another point to Mrs. Dawson). Sixteen was the magic number for dating. And driving. And everything else.

“You nervous?” he asked softly, his face dropping closer to mine.

“No.”

“Liar.” He chuckled.

I didn’t answer because silence was better than admitting he was right.

He drew me closer and I realized how muscular he was. He was six inches taller than me, too, even with my two-inch boot heels making up some of the height difference.

“I really like you,” he said.

“I really like you, too.”

“Good.” Then he lowered his lips toward mine—

“Excuse me?”

I jumped out of Rick’s arms and whirled around. I knew that thick accent. Dad only pulled out the Bronx voice when he was trying to intimidate. He made it sound like he had mob connections—which he sooo did not. He’d lived in Las Vegas longer than he ever had New York.