Undead and Unworthy

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UNDEAD AND UNWORTHY

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.

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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.

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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)

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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

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) 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."

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.