The day I turned 16, my boyfriend-to-be died. I brought him back to life. Then things got a little weird...

Molly Bartolucci wants to blend in, date hottie Rick and keep her zombie-raising abilities on the down-low. Then the god Anubis chooses her to become a reaper—and she accidentally undoes the work of another reaper, Rath. Within days, she’s shipped off to the Nekyia Academy, an elite boarding school that trains the best necromancers in the world. And her personal reaping tutor? Rath.

Life at Nekyia has its pluses. Molly has her own personal ghoul, for one. Rick follows her there out of the blue, for another...except, there’s something a little off about him. When students at the academy start to die and Rath disappears, Molly starts to wonder if anything is as it seems. Only one thing is certain—Molly’s got an undeadly knack for finding trouble....

He drew me into his arms, right there in front of everyone, and leaned down.

“Happy birthday, Molly.”

Rick’s lips ghosted across mine. He angled his mouth against mine and I opened for him. My eyes fluttered closed. Tentative, I met his kiss and felt electrified. I clung to him, completely unsure about what I was doing.

He drew away, just a little, took a shuddering breath and returned. I was pressed so close to him that I could feel how his heartbeat matched the ferocity of mine. I felt awkward and amazed and—

We broke apart, grinning at each other.

“Open my gift, Mol.” He turned toward the fireplace.

I don’t know why he lost his footing.

Rick’s eyes went wide as he twisted, falling, his head bouncing off the corner of the stone fireplace.

I screamed.

With Curt’s help, I rolled him onto his back. His blue eyes were open wide and unseeing. I pressed a shaking hand against his chest.

“Too late, dude,” someone said. “He’s dead.”

All the colors around me bled away until everything was gray and covered in shadows. Above the dark, dead figure of Rick a ball of white light pulsed. It glittered, like starlight, and emanated comforting warmth.

Rick’s soul.

I knew that I had to capture the light before it took the journey into the afterlife. Rick needed it to live. All I could think about, focus on, was catching it and sticking it back in.

I had no tools, no magic spells, no perfect way to fix what death had broken. All the same, while Curt pounded on his friend’s chest, I stepped around him, knelt at Rick’s side and grabbed his soul.

Undeadly

Michele Vail

www.miraink.co.uk

To Natashya Wilson and Adam Wilson, who are made of awesome (and patience and enthusiasm and did I mention awesome?)

To all the wonderful peeps at TNT Dental (BTW, Jon Lemons really is a zombie…at least he is when he turns his T-shirt inside out. Really.)

Contents

Epigraph

Diary Entry 1

Ghost Gin

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Diary Entry 2

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Diary Entry 3

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Diary Entry 4

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Diary Entry 5

Epilogue

“To die will be an awfully big adventure.”

~J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

MOLLY’S REAPER DIARY

Holy Crap, What Happened to My Life?

So, my...um, friend gave me a diary for my sixteenth birthday because, apparently, it’s a necromancer tradition. I guess he did some internet research and found an archaic reference, which is kinda cool. It’s nice that he wanted to give me something meaningful, even if it was a book with a bunch of blank pages in it.

Anyway.

I’m glad he gave it to me. Because I want my life to mean something, and it’s so weird now! The night I turned sixteen, everything changed. Big-time. And you know what? If this kind of crap happens to anyone else (and it will) then I figured they might need a real guidebook...it’s sorta like Reaping for Dummies.

Yeah. Reaping.

We’ll get to that. But first, you gotta understand how everything started.

Here’s a little history...

* * *

It is said that Anubis fought a great earth-shattering battle with his uncle Set, the God of Chaos. Anubis’s legacy was to rule the Underworld and Set was all, “Nuh-huh. I want to rule the Underworld.”

So they had this huge freaking war. Set stole some of the reapers that Anubis was the boss of—and wow, did that piss him off!—so then, the reapers were fighting each other and the humans were all, “What is this crap? Reapers suck!” And there were plagues and famine and people dying for no reason, and the reapers were too busy blasting each other to do their jobs.

It was a mondo ick mess.

Finally, Anubis went deep into the Underworld and got some bad-ass magic. We’re talking magic so ancient and powerful, it wasn’t supposed to leave the world of the gods, like, ever.

But he got it anyway and used it to capture Set. He imprisoned the god in the bowels (Seriously? Ew!) of the Underworld, and then he banished all the disloyal reapers into this place that was like limbo, I guess, only way, way worse. And no one but Anubis could get there. Or something like that.

Anyway, Anubis was so upset about what went down, and he felt so bad about all the humans who’d been hurt, that he changed the rules about death and reaping and junk. (That’s a god for you.)

He was like, “Sorry, humans, my bad. Here’s some magic.” Okay, it was sorta like that. He was worried that his reapers might get more ideas about mutiny or whatever, so he split a reaper’s power into five magical abilities, which matched the five parts of the soul. (Did you know there were five parts to a soul? Heka 101, peeps.)

And he bestowed these five heka gifts upon some fancy schmancy nobles because Anubis is a snob. Most gods are totally noses up, you know? That’s what being immortal and all-powerful gets you.

So, he’s like, “Hey, I’m giving each of you one of these gifts, and you can use them to control parts of being dead.” It was like an end-of-the-war party gift for all the survivors. Here’s the down-low:

Ka Heka — Reanimates dead bodies using a teeny tiny part of the soul called the ka. (Pretty common ability these days.)

Ren Heka — Calls forth and communicates with earth-bound spirits. (Lots of necros can do this one, too.)

Sheut Heka — Creates and commands soul shadows. A soul shadow is sorta like the top layer of the soul, peeled away. (This power is rare, and a total no-no. Anyone unlucky enough to be born with this ability is whisked away by the government. Well, that’s what the internet says, so it must be true.)

Ba Heka — Supposedly, ba heka necromancers can bind souls and keep them from entering the afterlife. (No one in modern times is known to have this gift. Or maybe they’re hanging out with the sheut hekas in a government lab.)

Ib Heka — Sees into the heart of the soul, and knows the person’s true worth. (Necromancers who have this ability usually go crazy, or become hermits, or sometimes, they start cults. A few have been serial killers.) Very, very, veeeeery rarely, a necro is born who has two gifts. The last one recorded was Leonardo da Vinci. Explains a lot, right? No known human has ever had all five gifts. It’s almost impossible, because a human with that kind of power couldn’t handle it. We’d implode, or something.

Supposedly, Anubis watches all the humans who are born with heka gifts, and if they use their magic well and don’t act like douche bags, then he offers them a reaper job after they die. It’s like anyone who’s born with death magic is training to be a reaper in the afterlife.

Just so we’re clear, reapers are dead.

At least, they’re supposed to be.

No one really knows how the whole reaper thing works, this is just the stuff they make us learn in The History of Necromancy, and it’s called “theory” or “mythology” or “wasting an hour of my life every day.”

These days, people use reaper powers to enslave ghosts, make zombies, and basically cash in. If Anubis doesn’t like what humans ended up doing with those gifts...well, he hasn’t done anything about it. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he’s down in the Underworld having parties with gods and souls, and is all like, “Humans? What humans?”

Oh. And there’s this really, really, really old wall relief in some temple in Egypt dedicated to Set that says, “He will break his bonds and rise again to take his revenge. Death will come to the world and the living will be no more.”

Total suckitude.

Molly Bartolucci

Mrs. Dawson’s English Class

10th Grade

Ghost Gin

In 1898, when Signor Guglielmo Marconi was inventing the wireless telegraph, Mr. Michael Ruddard decided he’d rather focus on undead communication.

Ruddard discovered the energy of the human spirit could be captured. His experiments led to the creation of the Spirit Extraction, Encapsulation and Restraining engine, otherwise known as SEER. Informal terms for the SEER are otherworld portals, S-traps and ghost gins.

To those caught by the ethereal fingers of the engine, it was called eternal enslavement. Why pay live humans when a SEER produced free labor by raising the spirits of workers already dead? This is supposed to be a descriptive essay, Molly, not a persuasive one. Stay on topic.

Psychics were hired to keep the ghosts working and some necros specialized in locating other spirits. At first, only rich people could afford SEERs. Like most other tech, the gins were eventually made smaller and more affordable. These days nearly every house is haunted. You’re wandering away from your main subject, which is about the invention of the SEER, not about the ghosts.

Dead rock stars go on tour, sports teams with spirit players take championships and supermodel apparitions strut the catwalk. But one problem with ghosts was that they couldn’t be photographed or filmed. Hollywood invested millions into researching how to fix the issue, but so far, no one has come up with a solution. Meanwhile, theaters made a killing because audiences paid big bucks to see their favorite dead actors performing on stage.

SEER machines aren’t perfect. Some have failed completely! Can anyone forget when Monty Klein wrenched himself free of his SEER on “Night Life” and dove into his live cohost? He made Johnny Moreland stab his own eyes with pens! Everyone totally saw that show. And you’re going to tell me ghosts can’t hurt people?

Where’s the ending? Needs work, but good start. I suggest adding more detail about the psychics, which are an important element to modern-day SEERs.

Right now, your essay barely rates a C. You usually do so much better work than this! Please see me after class to talk about how else you can improve this project.

Chapter 1

“Necromancy has existed for as long as we have. Most historians agree, however, that it was the Egyptians who perfected the art of raising the dead. No other culture can boast that their zombies built such magnificent monuments. Consider the Temple of Karnak, the Sphinx and the pyramids at Giza. All gifts from the children of Anubis.”

~History of Necromancy, Volume II

“This is the third time!” groused Mrs. Woodbine. She slapped the arm onto the counter with a meaty thunk. I looked at the flabby, gray-skinned limb with its sausagelike fingers then at the jowl-faced woman who squinted at me through her bifocals. She wore a purple jogging suit that was too tight and amplified her chunky form. The top jacket was unzipped, revealing old-lady cleavage, which made me want to yark. Seriously. Wrinkled boobs were not pretty.

“Hello, Mrs. Woodbine,” I said. Must. Resist. Sarcasm. “I see Mr. Woodbine has lost another limb.”

Another Friday afternoon in hell, thank you. As usual, I’d come to work straight from school, which was only a couple blocks away on the other side of Warm Springs Road. Our house wasn’t too far away, either. We lived in a typical Las Vegas house (think beige, Spanish tiles and zero-scaping) on Grimsby Avenue (ironic, right?), which was on the other side of Green Valley High School. I worked for my dad, every afternoon and on the weekends. I got paid, which was good. But I also had less of a social life than most girls my age. Try no social life.

Except for tomorrow. Finally, it was my sixteenth birthday, and I was having a big party. At least I hoped so. Lots of people had RSVP’d, including Rick Widdenstock. Even though he was just a sophomore like me, he was the quarterback for the Green Valley High School Gators. Did I mention Rick’s hotness? We’d been flirting for the past couple of weeks; yesterday and today, he sat with me at lunch. Gena and Becks, my two best friends, had found other things to do, even though we always ate lunch together. That was why they were my best friends—because they knew when to bail. And they didn’t even mind about all the zombie stuff. Most normal people were weirded out by my necro powers. Necros were all over the place, you know? But there were only a handful who attended my high school, and most of them were too dark and angsty for my taste. Plus, I didn’t look good with kohl on my eyes and my nose was too cute to be pierced.

Mrs. Woodbine jerked on the leash she held in her free hand, which was attached to the neck of her husband, Mortimer. He shuffled to the counter, his empty gaze on the floor. Like most zombies, he looked gray and hollow-eyed. His clothes hung loosely on his thin frame. His gray hair stood up in stiff tufts and his skin was flaking. His lips were crusty; his teeth blackened. Had Mrs. Woodbine even bothered to skim the state-issued guide The Care and Feeding of Your Zombie? No wonder parts of her husband kept falling off. Sheesh!

We were required to give every new zombie owner the guide at the end of the four-hour course. Hmph. The Moron’s Guide to Not Getting Eaten by Your Zombie might’ve suited Mrs. Woodbine better. Zombies required care. You had to comb their hair, cut their nails, oil their skin, brush their teeth and give them weather-appropriate clothing and shoes. Even though I was a ka heka (zombie maker) in training and I knew zombies weren’t really people (sorry, but they’re not), I still felt a lurch of pity for the thing that used to be Mortimer Woodbine.

“It’s the same limb,” Mrs. Woodbine said. “Frankly, I’m tired of having to bring him down here. Big Al’s low, low prices certainly don’t translate to quality work.”

I bristled. My dad, Alfonso Bartolucci, was what you’d call larger-than-life (though that’s not the description some people would use). He owned and operated Big Al’s Zomporium, and despite the cheesy name and Mrs. Woodbine’s opinion, we were a decent operation. My mom had been a ka heka, too. She’d walked out on us when I was ten. After she left, Dad hired a guy named Demetrius to be the Zomporium’s ka heka, and he was teaching me and Ally. Demetrius was a cool dude. He was as black as coffee grounds, old as dirt and he still had a smear of a Jamaican accent. I liked him a lot.

But the zombie-abusing Mrs. Woodbine? Not so much.

“Hel-lo!” Mrs. Woodbine screeched, snapping her fingers in my face. I blinked, my thoughts skittering, and resisted the urge to slap her hand away.

“Teenagers today! I swear to God! You’re all worthless.” She huffed at me, turkey neck quivering, as she poked the arm. “Did you hear me? This is the third time his damn arm has fallen off.”

It ka-illlled me, but I smiled. “Let me see what we can do for you.”

“I want a discount,” she said, her flat brown gaze flashing with triumph. “A big one. You’re lucky I don’t call the Zombie Safety and Inspection Service on this place!”

You’re lucky I don’t whap your big stupid mouth with Mortimer’s arm. I slid the pathetic limb off the counter then picked up the phone. I buzzed the cell of my sister, Ally, who was supposed to be organizing the storage room but was probably making picket signs for Citizens for Zombie Rights. Ally and her friends had created the group last year after watching a Dateline exposé on zombie abuse.

She’s such a dork.

“What?” she spat.

Ally didn’t care much about social graces, diplomacy or keeping her mouth shut. That was why I was manning the customer care center and she was stuck rearranging all the crap in storage. I didn’t necessarily like everyone who walked through the doors, but I knew how to be polite. Most of the time.

Ally sighed in that dramatic, you’re-making-my-brain-melt-with-your-stupidity way that always drove me nuts. I wanted to ride her about making idiotic protest signs instead of stacking toilet paper, but I didn’t dare misbehave in front of a customer. Not even cranky, gnarly ol’ Mrs. Woodbine. Nonna Gina had ears like a reaper and a rolling pin we called “lightning fury.” Our grandmother was unafraid of whacking our butts with it. That was how she’d raised our dad, and he was still afraid of the rolling pin.

“Mrs. Woodbine has an issue with her zombie,” I finally said. “Would you mind keeping her company while I take care of Mortimer?”

“That hag is back again?”

I smiled at the hag. “Yes. So, can you come up?”

“Gawd!” She snapped her phone shut.

A moment later she stomped out of the door situated behind the customer care desk. Her scowl zeroed in on Mrs. Woodbine. Ally was fourteen, tall and gangly, still flat-chested and had braces, too. She had the best hair—long, silky chestnut waves with auburn highlights, but did she care? No. She also liked to wear baggy clothes in blah colors. Even though I would never admit it to her (not ever), one day she’d be gorgeous. Y’know, after she lost the metalwork, got some boobs and developed some fashion sense.

“Mrs. Woodbine,” she said. Her voice held a hint of accusation. “Would you like some tea while Molly takes Mortimer for repairs?”

The woman was caught between reacting to my sister’s less-than-friendly tone and the seemingly polite question. Finally, Mrs. Woodbine nodded. “I would love some tea. Did your grandmother make any cookies?”

Sometimes I wondered if she broke Mortimer’s arm on purpose so she could chow down on the almond biscotti Nonna baked fresh every day for customers. Luckily, my grandmother saved the buccellati-fig cookies for us.

Ally gestured toward the seating area and Mrs. Woodbine hurried toward the side table that held dispensers filled with three kinds of herbal tea and two large platters of Nonna’s treats.

I rounded the desk, holding poor Mortimer’s arm, and then grasped the hand of the arm still attached. It was like gripping crusted leather. I felt another surge of anger at Mrs. Woodbine’s poor zombie management skills. “C’mon, z-man. Let’s get you fixed up.”

We entered the same door my sister had flown out of, and she sent me a glare, and hissed, “Hurry!”

“Do you want to take the zombie to Demetrius?” I asked.

Ally eyed Mortimer, and I got the distinct feeling she was imagining some kind of jailbreak. Knowing her and her nutso friends, they probably had a plan for that kind of thing. “Never mind,” I said. “I don’t want to get grounded because you’re planning zombie intervention.”

“Whatevs. Just go already.” She looked down her nose at me, and then she perched on the stool behind the customer care desk. Her glare tracked Mrs. Woodbine as the woman filled a plate with cookies.

I kinda hoped Ally would do something mean to Mrs. Woodbine, but even Ally had her limits on rudeness. Probably.

I took Mortimer down the hallway, which had one door on the left (employee bathroom), two on the right (supplies, storage) and one at the end (sahnetjar).

Sahnetjar was the ancient Egyptian name for the place where they made mummies and zombies. Necromancers still used the term today, probably because it sounded all fancy and mysterious.

As I led the zombie to the sahnetjar, I felt another pang of pity. I don’t know why Mortimer hadn’t put an Advance Zombification Directive into place. Lots of people had an AZD—and sometimes, their relatives would still try to zombify them. Dad read anyone the riot act who tried to circumvent an AZD—and sadly, a lot of people tried.

A memory pattered me like cold rain. I was in the lobby watching Ally color because I’d been directed to “Look after your sister.” Seemed like I was always watching her, and I was always caught between feeling protective and resentful. Pretty much the way I felt about my sister now.

Dad and Mom were arguing about a customer.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Cyn. You know how I feel about AZDs.”

“But he offered a fortune! And his wife’s dead. Zombies don’t have feelings, Al. She doesn’t care.”

“I do! We honor the wishes of the dying. You give his money back and you de-animate Mrs. Lettinger.”

“You’re such an asshole, Al!”

I missed my Mom. I probably shouldn’t, given that she basically gave us all the finger and took off. What kind of mother abandoned her family? When I was ten, I figured it was something I had done. Something I said or did. I cried and cried, and so did Ally. Dad did everything he could to make us feel better. And then Nonna left New York and came to live with us. Eventually, life got better.

Anyway.

I know my parents tried to keep their fighting away from us, but...yeah, that didn’t exactly work out. I remember that things were always tense, especially right before Mom left. So, I don’t really miss what Ally calls the Angry Times.

Still. The thing that I remembered most about my mom was that she was spontaneous. I think my dad would call it irresponsible, but he’s a lot on the serious side. Being a single dad is hard on him. He worries. Mom didn’t let stuff bother her. She laughed a lot. And she’d do silly stuff like break out into random dancing, or a game of chase around the house, or sometimes, after I’d gone to bed, she’d crawl under the covers and wrap her arms around me and sing softly.

I don’t know why she left. Dad didn’t exactly know, either, so what could he tell two grieving daughters who’d been abruptly, inexplicably, abandoned?

Well, you know. Not that Dad doesn’t crack a smile, or anything, he totally does. It’s just different, I guess. Dad raised me and Ally—well, he and Nonna did. It was a good life, maybe a little stifling with all the rules about curfew, homework, job and boys. Still. Dad taught me to whisper my prayers to the dead every night, whether they were zombies or not. Some souls choose to move into the next plane of existence, but some don’t, you know. Souls can get trapped in this world. If you die, and you don’t move on, then your soul remains bound to this plane and your spirit can be...er, acquired.

Yeah. You can be attached to a SEER machine, which FYI, is way worse than being a zombie. Zombies are just animated corpses. We need only one teeny tiny part of the soul, the ka, to make that happen. A soul doesn’t need the ka. It’s like a spleen, or an appendix, or wisdom teeth. But if you’re attached to a SEER machine, then your spirit energy belongs eternally to whoever owns it. And if you think people are mean to zombies, you should see some of the stuff spirit slaves have to do. The worst part is that they’re sentient energy. They know what’s being asked of them, and they have to do it. At least zombies don’t know when someone is demeaning them. Spirits have about the same kind of rights as zombies—as in, none. Courts keep ruling that death negates the civil rights of the previously alive. That goes for spirits and for corpses.

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.

“Dad!” I pasted on a smile as frustration (no kiss) warred with embarrassment (so busted). Dad had the worst timing ever. “This is my friend. Rick Widdenstock.”

My father wasn’t much taller than I was, but he was built like a bull. Barrel-chested and muscular with slicked-back dark hair and amber eyes that took in everything, he did kinda look mob-ish.

“How ya doin’, Rick?”

Rick pretended my dad hadn’t scared the crap out of us. He crossed the room and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

My father pumped Rick’s hand. He was impressed by good manners. Me, too, actually.

“My little girl, you know, she’s not sixteen yet.”

“No, sir. But I’ll be here tomorrow night to celebrate her birthday.”

“Just see that you celebrate it with your hands in your pockets, Rick.”

“I have every intention of kissing Molly, sir,” he said. “I’ve waited for her a long time.”

I almost fell over. A long time? I didn’t think he’d noticed me until two weeks ago. And that was only after he’d broken up with Mina—and they’d dated all last year. Maybe he was just laying it on thick for my father. Although his announcing he wanted to make-out with me probably hadn’t made Dad all that happy.

But it sure did me.

“I appreciate honesty, Rick. But watch the hanky panky, y’hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Walk your young man out, Molly,” said Dad. “I’ll wait for you here.”

Terrific.

Rick might’ve been cowed by my father, but he’d hidden it well. He’d made a stand, too. He took my hand and we walked outside together. We leaned against the driver’s side door, close but not touching. I wouldn’t put it past my dad to be looking out a window and scowling at us.

“You must really want to date me,” I said, realizing as the words left my mouth that I’d made a huge assumption. I mean, kissing me was one thing, committing to dinner and a movie every weekend was something else. That was dating, right?

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I really do.”

“Why?” I asked. I didn’t feel like anyone special, and I certainly didn’t fit in with Mina and her crowd.

“You’re pretty, smart and funny. What’s not to like?”

I pretended to think about it. “True.” I looked up at him through my eyelashes. “So why should I date you?”

“Because I have a kickin’ ride, I’ll pay for every date and...” He leaned down and whispered, “I’m a very good kisser.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I said primly.

He laughed. Then he put a finger to my lips. “You’ll see tomorrow night.”

Disappointment crowded my stomach. “Tomorrow?”

“When you’re sweet sixteen, Molly Bartolucci, I will kiss your socks off.” His lips melted into that oh-so-sexy grin, and I grinned back, butterflies jumping and fluttering.

I stood in the driveway and watched him leave. He waved at me then drove sedately down the street. I turned to go back into the house, prepping my story for Dad.

He was still in the living room. He’d pulled a picture off one of the shelves, the last one we’d taken before Mom bailed. When he looked at me, tears glittered in his eyes.

“You look just like her.”

Dad didn’t really talk about Mom that much. For a while, there’d been a hole in our family, but eventually it closed up. She’d left, and we’d survived. Still. This was weird. I’d been expecting the chewing out of my life, and he was getting all sentimental. I sucked in a breath and said, “We weren’t doing anything. He just gave me a ride. I had to change clothes—”

Dad put the picture back and waved off my explanation. “Demetrius called my cell and said that Whacko Woodbine’s zombie bit you.” His gaze dropped to my shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

He nodded. “Good.”

I put a hand on my hip and frowned at him. “Who are you? And what have you done with Al Bartolucci?”

Dad chuckled. “You think I don’t know about you and boys? Oh, I know. You’re a good girl, Molly. But you’re gonna be sixteen and you wanna date. I get it. And that guy, Rick, he’s all right.”

“And the zombie bite?”

“Demetrius is a world-class necromancer,” said Dad. “He says you’re gonna be fine, so you are.” He opened his arms and I walked forward to accept his hug. He kissed the top of my head. “You’re very special, Molly. I know that. You gotta lot of things to do, you know? I’m real proud of you.”

For some reason his words weren’t comforting. His body was tense, and I felt the sorrow woven in with his pride in me. He wasn’t telling me something—and I knew it was important. And it made him sad.

I leaned away from his embrace and looked into his eyes. I didn’t know if I’d be able to bear it if something happened to my dad. I already knew life wasn’t fair—if it was, parents wouldn’t leave. “Daddy, is something wrong? Are you sick?”

He looked surprised. “What? No. No way. I’m just wallowing because you’re a young lady now and you’re making me feel like an old man.”

I felt the truth in his words, but I still knew that he was holding back something important. Something I wasn’t gonna like.

“C’mon. We’ll go to the Zomporium and rescue your sister.”

“I think you mean we’ll rescue Mrs. Woodbine.”

Dad laughed. “Yeah. Ally will eat her for lunch, that’s true. But that woman deserves it. I should’ve never taken her business.”

“What’s done is done.”

He looked at me, another flash of sorrow in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said softly. “What’s done is done.”

Chapter 3

“The Greeks loved a good oracle, though they were not the first culture to embrace the art of prophecy. For millennia, necromancers have approached the Oracle of Anubis to find out their life’s purpose. Not every query is answered nor is all news heard welcomed. However, unlike the questionable nature of the Greeks’ oracles, the prophecies told by the Oracle of Anubis might as well be written in stone. A necromancer is always at the behest of Anubis’s will.”

~History of Necromancy, Volume II

In the dream, I walked through a tunnel carved out of rock. Ahead, I saw lights flickering and my footsteps quickened. Unrelenting black followed me, shadows that seemed to chase and growl, as if trying to stop me from going forward.

Torches lit the small, circular room, which was hewn out of the reddish stone and painted in bright hues. It looked like a picture from a history textbook. The incense was thick, but its odd scent wasn’t unpleasant. The only statue on the altar was Anubis, god of necromancy. I walked to the small wooden table and stared at the painted idol. Slowly, I reached out and touched it.

The statue felt warm. Alive.

“I present to you Molly Inez Bartolucci,” whispered a low, feminine voice. “She comes before you to be judged worthy of your gifts.” Then, like the white smoke of the incense, the voice faded away.

I wasn’t sure what was going on. I’d never been to any place like this. I had a small altar to Anubis in my room and every day, I said a prayer and made an offering. Dad taught Ally and me about honoring Anubis, even though Dad wasn’t a necro. He said we should always respect the gods and offer our gratitude daily.

I was still in my pajamas, and I was trapped in a place I had no idea how to leave. It was only a dream. Right? But...but if it was a dream, how did I know that? Wake up, Molly.

“Be still, daughter.” The booming voice bounced off the chapel’s walls and vibrated in my chest.

“Anubis.” I fell to my knees, more from fear than in supplication. Still, it had the same effect. I felt the death god’s approval.

“Your task will be great, daughter. And at times, the burden of your gift will be heavy. I have looked into your heart and judged you worthy. You are a child of Anubis, chosen of my gifts. Are you willing to accept my bidding?”

“Yes,” I said, because I was afraid not to agree. Hel-lo. God of the Underworld. The Reaper of all Reapers. I don’t think you’re allowed to say no.

“Of course you can say no,” said a voice that was closer, softer, but no less commanding. “Those who serve me, serve willingly.”

I hadn’t realized my eyes were closed, but they were. I didn’t want to open them, but then I felt a gentle hand cup my chin. So I opened my eyes.

The man sitting next to me cross-legged wore a T-shirt and jeans. He was barefoot. He had skin like a café latte and his almond-shaped eyes were as dark as the night. His long black hair brushed his shoulders.

Huh. Anubis was cute. Not my type at all, though. In fact I felt a little...repelled. Probably because he was a god and all.

“Trust me, Molly, I’m not cute.” He laughed. “This is just the form I’m taking now.”

Whoa. Anubis could read my thoughts. I blushed. “Sorry.”

“I’m quite old...say, around infinity. Cosmos, spiritual energy, psychic nuances...it’s complicated.”

“Oh. Well, if it’s more complicated than algebra, I’m out.”

He laughed. “Got it.”

He took my hand and turned it over. Little lines of black sparkles followed Anubis’s finger as he traced patterns in my palm. Heat followed the trails.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Giving you the gifts you will need for what challenges lie ahead. You’re choosing to serve.”

“Yes,” I reiterated even though he hadn’t really asked a question. I was scared and not at all sure I could do what he wanted, and the whole challenges thing did not sound fun. “Um...what challenges?”

He looked at me, and his wise-beyond-the-ages expression held amusement. “It will be revealed as you go. Think of it as a life puzzle, something I’ve given you the ability, intelligence and talent to put together. Patience, wisdom and fortitude are what you’ll have to cultivate to prevail.”

My stomach clenched as I realized the weight of his words. “What if I can’t do whatever it is?”

“I believe you can.” He pressed my hand between both of his. His dark eyes held mine. “And so must you, daughter.”

“Molly? Wake up!”

Ally’s screeching voice echoed in the cave. Anubis winked at me, and disappeared. For a moment, I sat alone in the cavern, and wondered what the—

“Molly!”

“Ugh!” I pried open my eyes and found Ally leaning over me. The curtain of her brunette hair tickled my forehead.

I blinked up at her. “Jeez. I’m awake already.” I glanced at the digital clock. 1:06 a.m. I sat up in my bed and she crawled in next to me. She wore Happy Bunny pajamas. The top said I Deserve All My Stuff. The rude pink cartoon character was one of her faves, which figured. My sis was, in a lot of ways, Happy Bunny.

She tossed a small wrapped gift in my lap. “Happy birthday.”

I grinned. After Mom had bailed on us, I’d started the birthday game. I woke up Ally on the exact time and day of her birth (3:03 a.m. on November 4), and gave her a present. She surprised me the next year, on my birthday, by doing the same. It was a tradition we’d created and stuck by—no matter how much we irritated each other.

I plucked off the tiny bow and tugged at the taped edge.

“Have you seen Deadlings?”

What had she taped this with? Super Glue? I glanced at her. “No. Is it a movie or something?”

She sighed. “Deadlings and the Cursed Ones is one of our necromancy books. It’s not on the shelf. I wanted to look something up—”

I stopped picking at the tape. “What?” I asked sharply. Ally was too smart for her own good. Her plans created mondo trouble. I mean, they always worked, but again...mondo trouble. I wasn’t getting grounded again because of her. Shall we discuss the zombie dog incident? Yes, animals can be zombified—but it’s illegal. Animal souls are different from people souls. Animals brought back are usually vicious and can’t be controlled. More than one pet owner has ended up injured or dead because they took their precious fluffywuffykins to a black market zombie-maker. And having dead, vicious dogs appeals to certain criminal types. But does my sister pay attention? No. At the tender age of twelve, Ally had come across a zombie Doberman chained in a yard and talked me into rescuing it. And by rescue, I mean being chased and almost eaten.

Somehow, someway, I always got blamed (she’s persuasive, all right?) because I was the older sister who should “Be the example, Molly, not the afterschool special.” Sigh. Well, I had bigger things at stake now. Like cars and boyfriends.

She shrugged, her gaze skittering away. “Just something for the club.”

“Like what?”

Rolling her eyes, she plucked the gift out my hand and used her fingernail to rip open the side. She handed it back. “Nothing, all right? Club business, which means not your business. Just open your stupid gift already.”

“You’re so sweet,” I muttered, ripping off the paper. It was a shiny red box. I opened it. Nestled inside was a slender, delicate-looking bottle with the ankh, the symbol of life and the soul, emblazoned on it.

“It’s perfume,” she said. “I ordered it special from this necro website. It’s called Soul, Baby.” She looked at me. “Dumb name. But it smells good. And you like that kind of stuff.”

“Ally...it’s wonderful.”

“Dad helped me buy it for you.”

I didn’t know what to say. Ally could be annoying, cranky and generally a jerk...but sometimes she got things right. Really right. I had to admit I felt a bad case of the warm fuzzies.

“Oh, and BTW, you’re welcome for bringing home your purse and cell phone. After you left me to deal with that hag from hell, I should’ve tossed it all into traffic.”

“I already said thank you,” I said. “You want it written in blood or what?”

Ally grinned at me. “Well, I did get to see Dem and Nonna take her down. But not before she ate her way through a plate of cookies. I saw her stick a bunch in her tote, too.”

“Meh. Parting gift,” I said. “Good riddance.” I closed the box with a snap. I rubbed the top of the lid and chewed my lip. “I had a dream...um, about Anubis.”

Ally peered up at me. “You had an Anubis dream on your sixteenth birthday?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know, right?”

She was quiet for a moment. “You remember what Dem told us? About how Anubis would visit some necromancers in their dreams?”

“Sure.”

“On their sixteenth birthdays?”

Something inside me went cold and still. “That kind of stuff doesn’t really happen anymore.”

“Are you brain-damaged? It just happened to you. You really don’t like school, do you? We’re talking about this in my eighth-grade Necro 101.”

“I remember that class. Sorta,” I said, feeling defensive.

“In the sixteenth year of a necromancer’s life, parents used to take their kids to the Oracle and ask to know their paths. If the child had an Anubis dream, it meant they were chosen to do something important.”

I stared at her. “Hello, have you met me?” I vaguely recalled Dem telling us that during one of our necro lessons. Ally had a brain like a computer. She remembered everything in excruciating detail. Suddenly the gift in my hand felt like a huge weight. My heart felt heavy, too, as if too burdened to keep beating. I took a deep breath. “Do you really think I had an Anubis dream?”

Ally shrugged. “Well. Maybe it’s psychological. I mean, people don’t consult oracles anymore, right?”

I eyed her because she sounded almost soothing. And Ally trying to comfort was so not her style. “Aw, man. They do, don’t they?”

She stared at me, obviously debating, and then, like always, her honesty won out. “Yeah. Some necros still consult oracles. They’re built into the temples, Molly. Lots of necros honor the old ways.”

Foreboding crawled through me. We both sat on the bed, the silence thick.

Ally said, “You think Mom misses us?”

It killed me to hear the longing in her voice. She’d had the least amount of time with Mom; she was barely eight when Cynthia Bartolucci hit the bricks.

“Sure she does,” I lied.

Ally didn’t seem to take comfort from my words. “I used to remember what she looked like. Her scent. Her laugh. It gets harder to think about her.” She sighed. “She’s never coming back.”

“I know,” I said softly.

She swung her legs off the bed and stood up. She took a couple steps and then looked over her shoulder. “I bet the dream means nothing. Why would Anubis pick you to do anything?”

Since genuine curiosity laced her voice and not the scoffing tone she used when she thought others beneath her intellect, I didn’t throw a pillow at her head. Her gaze looked worried, too. And that kinda freaked me out. Ally wasn’t a worrier. A plotter, a planner, a pain in the butt, yes, but definitely not a worrier.

“True,” I said, waving my hand as if it could push aside both our doubts. “Besides I don’t want to do anything that will ruin my manicure.”

Ally snickered. Then she bounced off, going through our adjoining bathroom into her own room.

I fell back against my pillow, clutching the perfume box in my hand. It took me a long time to go back to sleep.

MOLLY’S REAPER DIARY

A Short History of My Life and the First Lesson of Reaperhood

So, I already wrote about the history of reapers. And I figured maybe I should write about the history of me. Well, not in a Lifetime movie kind of way. The first sixteen years of my life aren’t exactly riveting. Here are the highlights:

* * *

I was born.

Then Ally was born.

Having a sister two years younger than me is annoying...except when it’s not.

Uncle Vinnie died when I was three.

Mom left us when I was ten.

Nonna moved in and taught us about cooking and fear. (Hello, rolling pin.)

I started zombie-making training.

I survived my freshman year of high school.

I am currently enduring my sophomore year of high school.

I got my driver’s permit.

I turned sixteen.

I had an Anubis dream.

* * *

Like I said, riiiiiiiiiiveting. I hope that my future holds more exciting adventures, even beyond driving and dating. I did just accept Anubis’s offer of extra gifts, but I had brain fail in the dream.

So here’s the first lesson of being a reaper in training.

Ask questions.

I haven’t known Anubis long, but I don’t think he’d mind if you posed a query or two about what to expect when you agree to serve him. Here are few questions, you might want to ask:

What does serving you mean exactly?

How do I know when it’s time to serve you?

What’s the timeframe for serving you? It is...um, forever?

Do I get vacation days?

What gifts did you give me? And what am I supposed to do with them?

Are there perks involved with service to an immortal god? Such as free chocolate, a day pass away from my sister or getting out of school early?

Will there be homework?

* * *

Feel free to personalize these questions as they suit your birthday dream conversation with Anubis. Meeting Anubis is usually a time-sensitive matter, so keep your questions precise and be prepared for answers that will totally bum you out. If you don’t have time to ask him about homework...the answer is yes.

There is always homework.

One more FYI...

You will be afraid. That fear will sit like a cold, dark lump in your stomach, and it will grow tentacles and clutch at your heart and your brain, and choke your thoughts and emotions until all that exists is pain and exhaustion and terror.

My advice?

Embrace it.

Chapter 4

“The Oracle predicted Set’s return, and that the god of chaos would ruin the world. Even though humans had reaper powers, they would not be enough to defeat Set. Anubis refused to abandon his human children again, and began to choose the worthy to receive more of his gifts. Throughout centuries, a secret sect of warriors with the strength, abilities, magic and skills trained, every generation, to go into battle against Set. Among them was the Chosen—a singular warrior who would channel Anubis’s powers to defeat Set. This champion was known as the kebechet.”

~The Champion and Other Tales of Anubis, Author Unknown

I spent most of my birthday day worrying about the Anubis dream. And getting ready for the party. Gena and Becks came over early to help me decorate and get the furniture all situated. They were appropriately horrified by my Dad’s ancient stereo equipment, but Becks took over the task of burning cool music onto CDs.

We had fun, especially when Nonna started bringing out the food. We had to taste test, you know? And the closer party time got, the more excited I got and the less I worried about Anubis and dreams and Oracles.

I said less, all right? No matter what conversation I was having or what food I was eating or what music I was listening to or whatever...the Anubis dream and what it could mean stuck in my brain like a tiny, sharp thorn.

I didn’t want to be worried about it. I didn’t want it to mean anything. But somewhere deep inside, where my fears and ghosts lay hidden, was the truth.

Anubis had chosen me.

* * *

It was just after 7:00 p.m. We’d strung up paper lanterns across the eaves of the porch. Cans of soda and water bottles were crammed into a couple of ice-filled coolers, and Nonna had outdone herself with the food. A long table outside was filled with appetizers and mini desserts, and we had trays set up around the living room and kitchen with similar treats. The partygoers spilled out through the open patio doors.

Ally was hanging out with her Citizens for Zombies friends, probably painting signs and writing speeches. Uncle Vinnie was with Dad. Even though my uncle was a zombie, Dad still treated him like a human. They watched TV together every night. I could hear Daddy’s television turned way up, probably to drown out the noise of the party. Nonna Gina was out with her quilting club. I’d never seen her quilt, but she always came home from her “meetings” in a really good grappa-induced mood.

The CDs that Becks had burned were playing and so far I’d kept Dad away from the sound system. He’d been bummed that he’d been unable to sneak in the soundtrack to The Breakfast Club (which, BTW, has only one good song on it...well, one good song if you’re old and like that kind of thing).

Presents were piled on a table near the fireplace. Everyone seemed to have ponied up a gift and I couldn’t wait to plow through those babies. I wondered if Rick would bring me something (oops...my shallowness was showing again) and what it might be?

He hadn’t arrived yet, though a lot of kids were already in the living room. Some were dancing; others were rambling out the open sliding glass doors and down into the yard. I saw several kids light up cigarettes near the back fence.

I turned around and headed into the house. I prayed my Dad wouldn’t come down to snoop, because I would die if he got all parental.

When I came back inside, Becks grabbed my arm and dragged me into the kitchen. Rebecca “Becks” Fortwith had been my friend since seventh grade, when we had the same English class and bonded over our mutual horror about The Grapes of Wrath. I mean, John Steinbeck is all right, I guess, but reading about the dust bowl and farmers in Oklahoma was kinda boring. And he didn’t mention zombies at all. Not like Zombie-cide 1932 by Hayden Smith. He went into ugly detail about starving farmers cooking and eating their zombies. And the families who ate zombies went crazy, or died, because hel-lo you can’t eat zombies. Even though necro magic arrests decomposition (well, mostly), zombies are still corpses and so, are yucky. Anyway, that’s why Oklahoma banned zombification. If you already had a zombie, then you could keep it. And even now, zombies accompanying visitors to the state had to get special passes and couldn’t stay longer than thirty days. Oklahoma is so weird.

“This. Is. Awesome,” said Becks.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, offering me a brace-filled smile. Becks was the tallest girl in school and her height made her self-conscious. She was always slouching. She had gorgeous blond hair and these big blue eyes, and creamy pale skin. Her parents let her wear makeup, but she hardly needed any.

“Where’s Gena?” I asked.

“Talking to Mason.” She waggled her brows, but I could see the flicker of envy. When you’re taller than most boys, they don’t really talk to you much. But there was also the matter of Becks being completely gorgeous, and that was probably extra intimidating to guys. At least, that’s what Nonna said. “Beautiful girls need confident boys,” she’d said. “Not so many of those around, bella.”

“He doesn’t really seem like her type,” I said. Mason was a little too angst-driven for Gena, who was the perkiest non-cheerleader you’d ever meet. Mason was in the drama club and took it way too seriously. If I had to hear one more of his lectures about “the craft of acting,” I would kick him in the shins.

“She’s attracted to the damaged ones,” said Becks. “She thinks she can fix them.”

“Mason isn’t broken,” I said. “He’s just serious. He never smiles. It’s strange.”

Becks smiled. “Says the girl who makes zombies.”

“Ha.” I took her by the shoulders and looked up into her eyes. “Truth. How does the party rate on the Mina scale?”

“Hmm,” said Becks. “Too early to tell, but the arrival of football players, the cool music and the to-die-for food...yeah. It’s heading toward a solid six.”

I nodded. The Mina birthday scale was hardcore. Here’s the deal:

Last May, Mina Hamilton had had a blowout for her Sweet Sixteen. Not only had she gotten a snazzy Corvette, but her parents had allowed alcohol. Sorta. They left the house for the whole night and let Mina and her friends do whatever they wanted. That’s the gossip, anyway. I wasn’t invited, so I don’t know what really happened. I just lapped up the rumors along with everyone else.

“You can let go of me.”

I was still clutching Becks, so I let her go. “Sorry.”

“It’s cool. I know you’re dying to see if Rick made it yet.” She grinned at me. “Go on. I’ll do a food and drink circuit, make sure everyone’s stuffing their faces.”

“Thanks.” I walked through the living room, scanning for Rick. I felt like I’d swallowed a sack of rocks. What if he didn’t come? What if he was teasing me about that kiss? What if—

Chills crept down my spine.

Ever since I’d woken up from that fitful rest, I’d felt different. It was a subtle feeling, though. More like a hushed expectation—you know, like that creepy silence before a bad storm. Nobody had said I looked any different, and I hadn’t noticed any manifestation of über powers. I wasn’t sure that Anubis had granted me gifts—I mean, the dream seemed so fuzzy now. But maybe they hadn’t kicked in yet. Or maybe I was way too concerned with dreams and destiny.

Still, the chill didn’t dissipate. To my left, I saw a flicker of black. When I turned to look, nothing was there. But I could feel something. Someone. Frowning, I stepped into the empty space...and felt as though I’d fallen into a snowdrift. It was like standing in the Arctic Circle.

In the blink of an eye, I saw a boy leaning against the wall.

His eyes, the amber color of Nonna’s sun tea, filled with surprise. For a second. Then his expression blanked.

I looked him over, head to toe. His chocolate-brown locks brushed his shoulders. His face was angular, his lips a slash of angry red. His T-shirt, jeans and sneakers were all black. Usually, one-themed looks totally didn’t work, but for him...yeah. Black was the new hot. He crossed his arms, which showed off his muscles big-time. It also tightened his T-shirt to reveal the flat plane of his stomach. He couldn’t have been much older than me...maybe a year or two. Was he a senior? I didn’t remember ever seeing him before.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“You can’t see me.” The voice whispered over me. I’d been around enough zombie-making magic to know how it felt. And his command held magic. Oh, no, he did not. What kind of necro-idiot tried to use his mojo on a living person? Did I look like a corpse? No, TYVM.

“Hel-lo,” I said, irritated. “I’m looking right at you.”

One chocolate eyebrow rose. He studied me, taking in my red short-sleeved cowl-neck top, faded blue jeans and black peep-toed shoes. Hmm. Was I imagining it, or was his gaze lingering on my cleavage? His eyes meandered back to mine. “You’re new.”

“I’m new? I’m standing in my own house, where I’ve lived my whole life.”

He looked at me, one eyebrow raised, his gaze assessing. “Definitely new. And mortal, too.”

“Mortal?” I asked. “You mean like every breathing human being on earth?” Sheesh. I didn’t know him, but that didn’t mean much. Some of the people I’d invited had brought along friends who attended different schools. I couldn’t quite get over the weirdness that he seemed perplexed by the fact I was an actual human being. He peered closer, as if doing so might give him a better view of my so-called mortality.

“This is...unexpected,” he said.

He was kinda creeping me out, especially the way he was looking at me—as though I was some kind of science experiment gone terribly wrong. I put my hand on my hip. “So, who are you?” I asked.

For a moment, he looked like he wasn’t going to tell me. Then he said, “Rath.”

“Rath?” I know I looked skeptical because...c’mon. Rath? Who names their kid Rath? “I’m Molly.”

“Molly. Never met anyone like you. You’re odd.”

My mouth dropped open, and I was so stunned by his comment, I couldn’t make with the words. Then Rath looked around, his expression tense. “This is my show tonight, rewbie. Got it?”

What was he talking about? And what was a rewbie? The derisive tone he used suggested he wasn’t calling me a pretty gem. I snapped my mouth closed. “My house, remember?” I pointed to myself. “Birthday girl.”

“Well, I’d say happy birthday...” He shrugged. “But it’s not gonna be particularly happy.”

“Rude much?” I asked, stung by his prediction.

“Truth is truth, brown eyes.” He eyed me. “How about I just say congrats?”

“Gee, thanks.” I layered on the sarcasm, but he wasn’t fazed by it.

Rath cocked his head, his gaze going distant. “Finally.” He tapped my nose. “Watch and learn. And don’t get in my way.” He moved past me, taking the glacial air with him. I found myself standing alone near the foyer, shivering. Watch and learn what? I had no idea what the guy was talking about. Too bad that in his case, cute meant cray-cray.

The front door opened. The rocks that had been tumbling in my stomach sank all the way to my toes and anchored me there.

Rick stood in the doorway.

And beside him, possessively clutching his arm, was Mina Hamilton.

Rick had brought Mina? My heart kicked into overdrive, and I felt my face go hot. So. Embarrassing.

Rick shook off Mina’s curled fingers and walked toward me, grinning. He looked happy to see me. The tight feeling in my stomach loosened. He reached me in three long strides and handed me a wrapped gift. “Happy birthday, Molly.”

“Um...thanks.” My gaze went over his shoulder to Mina. To make my party sooo much better, I saw her two best friends, Danette and Kylie, lurking behind her. Terrific. Rick’s gaze met mine. He mouthed the word sorry.

Mina and her minions approached, scorn in their gazes as they assessed my house and my guests and my party-in-progress. I felt lame. Really, really, horrifyingly lame.

“Nice party,” said Mina, her voice filled with contempt. She slung her arm over Rick’s shoulder. “Remember my Sweet Sixteen, Rick? Remember that present I gave you?”

Rick’s face went red. He pushed off Mina’s arm. “Go home,” he said. “You weren’t invited.”

Mina was obviously stung by Rick’s response. Her blue eyes snapped with fury. She glared at me, looking all beautiful and rich and vengeful. “Is that true, Molly? Me and my girls aren’t invited?”

Her voice rose, and the room behind me went silent. The music suddenly seemed too loud. I cleared my throat. “You’re welcome here,” I said. “It’s cool.”

“See, Rick?” she pointed out in a saccharine-sweet voice. “It’s cool.”

She pushed past us and her hags-in-waiting followed her. On the up side, Mina being at my party meant points in the popularity column. On the down side, she would probably do something nasty, or at least humiliating, and I would have to throw myself under the school bus to escape the fallout.

Not that I’m being dramatic or anything.

“She just showed up at my house. I tried to shake her, but she followed me here. I’m sorry, Molly. I know Mina isn’t always...nice.”

Try never.

“You dated her for a long time,” I said, unable to keep the accusation from my tone. “She can’t be all bad.”

His face went red again, and I realized that Mina had been a full-service girlfriend. Another wave of embarrassment heated my cheeks. I knew about sex, okay? And I knew that kids my age had sex. But I wasn’t ready to do it. I had to tell Rick, because if he was just trying to get in my pants, then we were over before we’d begun.

“I can’t be like her,” I said softly. I stared at the present. It was thick and rectangular. A book? Disappointment pricked me. Rick had gotten me a book? “I’m not... I won’t...” I looked up, unable to say what needed to be said.

He looked around, then took me by the elbow and steered me through the kids to the fireplace. It was the only space that didn’t have people crammed into it. I put the book among the piled gifts and then turned toward him. “Rick—”

“Mina and I are over. I don’t want her or her poison.” He drew me into his arms, right there in front of everyone (including Mina...nyah, nyah) and leaned down. “I like you, okay?”

I nodded.

“Don’t You (Forget About Me)” by Simple Minds started to play. Dad! He’d gotten that damned song into the mix after all. Rick smiled. “Wow. This is old school, Mol.”

He held me closer and I lay my head on his shoulder as we swayed to the music. Someone turned off the living room lights. The lamps on the end tables were on, but their muted glow barely pierced the darkness.

Still, I could see Rick lean down, his nose almost touching mine. I’d brushed my teeth twice and refrained from food and drink. Because I wanted our first kiss to be perfect—you know, without Doritos taint.

His lips ghosted across mine. My belly pulled tight with excitement. I was chest to chest with him. OMG.

“Sweet Molly,” he murmured. He angled his mouth against mine and I opened for him. My eyes fluttered closed. Tentative, I met the gentle thrust of his tongue. I felt electrified. I clung to him, completely unsure about what I was doing.

He drew away, just a little, took a shuddering breath and returned. I was pressed so close to him that I could feel how his heartbeat matched the ferocity of mine. I felt awkward and amazed and—

The lights snapped on. I opened my eyes, blinking, horrified that Dad might have come down to check up on us crazy teenagers and freaked to see me lip-locked with Rick.

“Mina! No!” Rick tried to push me out of the way, but he ended up projecting me right into Mina’s path.

The full contents of the punch bowl showered me. Red liquid splattered my face, hair and clothes. Ice cubes fell down my shirt and spun off my toes. Some of the sticky sweet drink dribbled into my mouth. Shocked beyond words, I could only stand there like an idiot.

“Damn it, Mina.” Rick’s expression was murderous. He looked like he wanted to hit her. I just wanted to melt into a puddle of shame.

“Oops,” she said in a bored tone. She let the plastic bowl drop to the floor. She flicked an icy glance around the room. No one laughed, which was a blessing. Usually Mina’s cruel humor got all kinds of chuckles—at least at school. But even though the music played on, every conversation had stopped. People were looking at me, at Mina, or at the floor.

“Smile for YouTube,” said Danette. That’s when I noticed that both of Mina’s friends were using the video cams in their iPhones to film me. I swallowed the knot in my throat and felt hot tears gather in my eyes.

“That’s enough,” said Rick. He moved to stand in front of me. “Get out.”

“This party is a yawn fest.” Mina swung her blond hair over her shoulder. “We’re outtie.”

She and her minions spun on their Prada heels and pranced out. The front door slammed, echoing above the soft drone of the music. Rick looked down at me, fury and regret warring in his gaze. “Mol, are you okay?”

I managed to nod.

“Aw, man. Is the party over?” I couldn’t pin the voice, it had drifted from the back of the room. People stirred, looking at me. Some started putting down cups, picking up purses, turning toward the door.

“No way,” I said, moving past Rick. I pasted a smile on my quivering lips. I really wanted to cry, but I wouldn’t. Mina couldn’t have my tears. “I just need to change.”

I sensed the hesitancy, the awkwardness.

“C’mon!” I said, nervous that people would leave. Then Mina would get exactly what she wanted. Me, humiliated and abandoned. “If you go, you’ll miss out on Nonna Gina’s triple-chocolate cake. And homemade ice cream.”

Stupid, right? So totally stupid to bribe partygoers with cake. I was glad Dad hadn’t made a surprise appearance. Then the party really would be over.

“I’m staying,” said Rick. He grasped my arm, not seeming to mind that it was covered in punch. “I’ll clean this up, Mol.”

Cake had nothing to do with keeping my guests here. Rick was just as popular as Mina. Probably more so, since he was likeable. He was staying. His friends, the jocks I’d seen in the backyard earlier, would stay. So, everyone would stay.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, not quite able to meet his eyes.

Then Rick leaned down and kissed me again. I was sticky and gross, but his hands cupped my face and his lips melded with mine. People laughed, whistled and one joker yelled, “Give her the tongue!”

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