eISBN : 978-1-101-18537-7
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For my sister
one
Hi, my name is Calliope Reaper-Jones
. . . and my dad is the Grim Reaper.
There, I’ve said it—and even though it
did
make me feel like I was taking part in some weird supernatural version of Al-Anon—now that I’ve gotten it off my chest, I do
sort
of feel better about being a half-human, half-supernatural freakazoid who—you know, let me just interrupt myself for one little minute here because . . .
who the hell am I kidding?
No matter how many times I say it out loud, I will always be different, always full of self-loathing for the nonhuman part of myself that just doesn’t quite fit in with human society even when I’m desperately trying to jam myself into it. I might have
some
Homo sapiens DNA swimming around in my gene pool, but that little bit of human being-ness isn’t nearly enough to make me a normal human girl.
No matter how much I want it to.
Okay, I know I sound like a whiner, but all I ever wanted in the whole world was to be
normal
. What’s wrong with wanting two
normal
parents, a couple of
normal
siblings, and a
normal
family pet or two? I mean, is all that pretty standard human-family stuff
really
too much to ask for?
Apparently so . . . because there
is
no “being normal” allowed when you’re the spawn of the crème de la crème of Supernatural Royalty. Let me just go on the record right here and now and say that being Death’s Daughter sucks—and I mean
major, hard-core suckage
.
Of course, as much as I
want
to lay the blame solely at my dad’s feet, I have a really hard time being mad at him. Maybe I’m being too lenient here, but at least he was who he was when my mother met him—and there was never any chance of changing that . . . and I mean
ever
. My
mother
, on the other hand, knew
exactly
what she was getting into when she fell in love with the Grim Reaper. She willingly accepted my dad’s marriage proposal, willingly took the oath of immortality, and in the process, doomed my sisters and me to an eternity of supernatural abnormalcy!
But try explaining that to
her. She
just gets all weepy-eyed and makes me feel guilty for even daring to mention that she
might
be slightly responsible for my predicament. I mean, there’s just no winning with my mother. In fact, to hear
her
tell it, the reason that I was so miserable had nothing at all to do with her
or
my father
or
their unholy union.
As far as she was concerned, I could put the blame right on the doorstep of the Atlanta Humane Society.
It’s actually
not
as bizarre as it sounds.
Let me explain:
The story goes that back when she was a normal mortal, and the head buyer for all the Neiman Marcus stores in the Southeast, my mother had been roped into emceeing the annual Atlanta Humane Society Charity Fashion Show by a friend—not knowing that this one charity fashion show was about to change her life, if not for the better, then at least for the
interesting.
She tried every excuse she could think of to get out of it: sick relatives that she had to visit, a sore throat . . . but her friend was immovable and no amount of cajoling or threatening or crying could garner my mother a rain check.
Why the President and CEO of Death, Inc., was at a charity fashion show in Atlanta, Georgia, is another story, but that’s where he was and thank God for that. Otherwise, he’d probably have married some dopey Goddess, or other magic-related babe from the supernatural canon, and I would be so full of magical ability that I would be totally unable to hold down a “normal” job. Let alone stay sane at a company like House and Yard, where I am the Executive Assistant to the Vice President of Sales, working to oversee the smooth running of the company that brings you all those “nifty” home and garden gadgets that proliferate the airwaves of the Home Shopping Channel.
Anyway, whatever his reasons for being there, my dad and his Executive Assistant, Jarvis, were seated in the front row, right smack-dab in line with the emcee’s podium. Immediately, my dad homed in on the beautiful young woman standing uncomfortably above him, extolling the virtues of a pair of neon pink palazzo pants that some model was wearing as she slunk down the runway.
Enrapturing
(his word, not mine), my dad thought to himself, watching the beautiful young woman flip through the index cards she held in her hands as she spoke.
Utterly enchanting
.
At that moment, he knew in his heart that he had finally—after many years of searching—made the acquaintance of the love of his life. Before him, high on her podium, stood the future Mrs. Death.
The happy couple quietly eloped six months later.
So, all of the above means that my parents are madly in love with each other, and as long as they continue to enjoy their lives together—and my dad continues to be the President and CEO of Death, Inc.—I and my entire family will continue to be immortal.
I suppose some people would consider this whole “immortality” thing to be, like, the greatest gift a parent could ever give their kid, but I’m here to tell you that it completely, totally, unbelievably . . .
bites.
I mean, imagine losing every person you ever loved to age and decay, while you stayed young and beautiful for eternity—or until you could figure out some way to renounce your immortality without pissing your dad off.
Let me just say that immortality fully screws with your head . . . and I know this from experience.
When I was a teenager, I was in a car crash with two of my best friends, and while I walked away without so much as a scratch, I
did
get the exciting experience of watching my two friends die horrible, agonizing deaths. It was, like, awesome!
Not
.
So, believe me, I
do
know what the hell I’m talking about when I say immortality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be—even though there are
some
idiots out there that still think being immortal is, like, the cat’s meow.
To those people I offer these ten simple words:
Spend a day in my shoes, and then we’ll talk.
In fact, how about you slip into my sexy little size 8 Manolo Blahnik faux zebra pumps that I got on sale at Barneys and try
this
day on for size.
it all started on what I thought was a reasonably normal Thursday evening. I had just shut down my computer, packed up my cute Louis Vuitton knockoff messenger bag—I didn’t even know Louis Vuitton
did
a messenger bag until I saw this little number sitting in Times Square—and was getting ready to walk over to the elevator and press the down button, when my cell phone rang.
At least, I thought it was my cell phone.
I dug around in my bag, looking for my stupid BlackBerry wannabe, praying it would continue to ring just long enough for me to follow the sound down to whatever nether region of my purse the dumb thing was seeking asylum in that day. Apparently, my handheld device had something going with my checkbook because I found it wedged—in a strangely
sexual
position—in between the check register and that weird plastic divider thing no checkbook holder ever seems to be without.
Of course, my hand closed on the stupid thing
just
as it stopped ringing, so I immediately pressed the answer key, hoping against hope to catch whoever was on the other end of the line anyway.
Nothing happened.
I put the phone part of the device to my ear, hoping for heavy breathing, and/or other assorted noises, but it was absolutely dead.
“Damn it,”
I mumbled under my breath, annoyed—and definitely not expecting anyone to say anything in return.
“Hello . . . ?” a voice sang through the receiver.
I almost dropped the phone.
“Helloooo . . . ?” I said in return, my voice completely belying my thoroughly confused state of being. I had definitely heard a serious lack of dial tone only seconds before, so who the hell was poltergeist-ing my PDA?
“Hello . . . ?”
the voice on the end of the line said a little more shrilly.
Okay, this is getting just a little bit ridiculous,
I thought to myself as I looked down at the phone and saw that the stupid thing wasn’t even
on.
“Okay, listen up. This is Calliope Reaper-Jones. I don’t know who you are, or why you’ve bewitched my handheld device, but this is
so
not funny!”
Without waiting a beat, a low-pitched feminine voice began talking at me like I hadn’t spoken at all.
“We will commence tonight with our first session,” the voice intoned. “It is imperative that you have a pot of licorice tea and two cupcakes—both in carrot cake—from the Magnolia Bakery waiting upon my arrival—”
“What are you talking about—” I started to say, but was overrun by the voice on the other end of the line.
“Thank you and good day.”
“Don’t you hang up, or I’ll—I’ll . . .” I stammered, but it was too late. The voice was gone.
“Crap,” I said under my breath as I dropped the phone from my ear and proceeded to stare down at its dead face. I had no idea what the heck had just happened, but it very much sounded like I was going to have a visitor tonight . . . whether I wanted one or not.
feeling slightly chagrined about having to go out of my way for a complete stranger, I hightailed my ass to Bleecker Street, thanking God that the Magnolia Bakery was open late. Of course, if I were really smart, I would’ve totally remembered that they delivered!
After a lengthy wait behind two pierced Goths—the female one was wearing a leather dog collar and leash attached to the male one’s nose ring—I was able to procure two carrot cake cupcakes (and a devil’s food one for myself). I walked for a couple of blocks, then, deciding to splurge, hopped into a taxi, luxuriating in the backseat all the way down to Battery Park City.
I really do try to walk as much as possible because I
do
live in the greatest place in the whole world: New York City. I know I should just get over it already and stop acting like a tourist, but every time I walk outside my door, I just can’t help being silently thrilled with the beauty of my environs.
Ever since I was a little kid, I had wanted to live in the City That Never Sleeps. I’d spent my childhood being ferried between Sea Verge (my family’s giant mansion overlooking the Rhode Island Sound) in Newport, Rhode Island, and a small East Coast boarding school called the New Newbridge Academy—but even then my heart belonged to New York.
I don’t know what it is about the city that makes it so enticing to me, but seriously, being a denizen of lower Manhattan is kinda like being high on catnip all the time—not that I was a cat . . . or had any kind of weird catnip addiction that I was hiding.
The only thing I did that
might’ve
bordered on the edge of addiction was my voracious obsession with acquiring new clothing, sunglasses, and shoes . . . the trendier the better. Too bad that all I could afford on the shopping scene these days was the cute little Al Gore tote bag I’d picked up at the Marc Jacobs store for five bucks the day before.
I had really, really,
really
wanted the amazing blue baby doll dress with tiny pearl buttons going down the front in a neat little row I’d glimpsed in the window, but had had to settle for just the tote when my credit card had been summarily declined at the register. It was just my luck that, although New York boasted some of the best shopping in the world, it also was home to some of the world’s highest-priced real estate, meaning that my rent ate up three-fourths of what I took home from House and Yard each week
.
Ugh.
Anyway, as the taxi glided to a stop in front of my building, I pulled a wad of one-dollar bills from my bag and shoved it at the driver. He seemed resigned to counting all my sweaty bills, but once he realized I’d given him a three-buck tip, he gave me a wide-lipped smile and tipped his baseball cap to me in the rearview mirror.
I paused, one foot on the pavement, the other still stuck in the cab, and stared, my heart riveted by the pair of ice blue eyes that I saw reflected back at me in the rearview mirror.
I knew those eyes!
I opened my mouth to speak, to say something that would make reality slide back into place, but before I could make a sound, the driver turned his head and gave me a curious look. His dark face was pockmarked and shiny. The two hazel eyes that peered out of his eye sockets bore not even a
passing
resemblance to the eyes I’d just seen.