Not Dead Yet

by Alice Bello

  Abbey held up her cup of coffee. “We’ve got caffeine. Wanna pull up a chair and stay for a while?”

  Lucy felt her eyebrows shoot up for a beat. “If you’re not too busy with Mr. Wonderful... yeah, coffee would be great.”

  “I’m pretty good,” Oz said, sidestepping Lucy and snagging two mugs from the shelf above the coffee machine, and pouring them both a cup. “But I wouldn’t go as far as saying I’m wonderful.”

  Cute...

  Lucy accepted the coffee and sat down at the table, across from Abbey. Oz sat down closer to Abbey. Lucy could tell by the suddenly ecstatic look on her face that Oz was probably playing a little footsies under the table.

  This was just going swell. She’d come to vent to her best friend, maybe even grill her about her sudden, rather frightening powers—and now she had an audience, one that was vigorously wrestling with her friend’s toes.

  Ye Gods...

  They made a little small talk, Lucy asked Oz about his family, and how things went at Wal-Mart after the police had carted off axe boy. But soon she felt like a big, honking third wheel. So she said her goodbyes, made a point of telling Abbey she’d see her at the bridal shower—she so needed a familiar, friendly face there—and made a bee line for the door.

  She was outside for no more than thirty seconds when a delivery van parked out front of Gram’s house. A middle aged man with a bit of a beer belly strode up to the door, dropped a package on the welcome mat, rang the door bell and marched off back to his delivery van.

  Just in case it was something dangerous, or something personal from Gabriel—which she couldn’t image what that could be—she trotted up onto the porch and picked up the small cardboard box before anyone else had a chance.

  It was addressed to her, and was pretty light. It was about eight inches long, and three inches wide. It was shallow and didn’t rattle when she shook it. The return address was State Prison in Stockton.

  Lucy’s heart fluttered. It was from her father.

  She sat down on the steps, hard. It wasn’t very dignified, but she just couldn’t control her legs. She held the package in her hands for what had to be ten minutes. Finally, she shook off the shock, and then set the package down on the porch beside her. She swiped her fingers under her eyes. The tears had dried already. Then she pulled her hair back from her face, twisting it and letting it fall straight down her back.

  She reached out for the plainly wrapped package, but her hand shook, so she closed her eyes, took some deep breaths and pushed everything else in the world away. She had to face this. It was the first contact she’d had with her father since the night he’d been arrested and hauled out of their home... had it really been nearly a year now?

  She sniffled and cleared her throat. “Just get it over with!” There. There was the old her. The snotty, bitchy, tough Lucy Hart. She felt that wonderful irritated heat rise up in her head. It was a welcome feeling. It never failed to free her mind of all fear and worry. And it was a precursor to her power—necromancy. She gulped and looked to the side. About a hundred yards behind the house was an old cemetery. And she had accidentally raised every corpse in it one night a few months ago.

  Don’t want that to happen again...

  She pulled back from that irritated heat. It made her feel better, but if she wasn’t careful, it would start acting on its own, doing things that she most certainly wouldn’t want happening.

  Centered, ready, no longer shaking, Lucy reached out again, seized the brown paper package, and tore the covering free of the box. The lid was cream colored, the bottom red, and there was a strange marking on the lid, an imprint. Two swords crossed over some sort of circle. She pulled the lid off and stared down at what was nestled in blood red velvet. About six inches long, the handle leather with cherry wood accents, the blade thin and sharp, and obviously silver.

  Lucy drew back from it, and shook her head. Then she saw the envelope taped to the inside of the box lid. She pulled it free and tore it open. Inside a note on bland white stationary held her father’s handwriting.

  Lucy,

  Lucy closed her eyes again. Not “Princess” or “My little girl.” Not anymore...

  I still can’t believe what a disappointment you’ve become. But at least you’re trying to marry-up in the world. That’s what your mother did, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

  She felt herself choke on his words, as if she were trying to swallow them.

  Though I don’t condone what you are doing, or the way you’ve done it, I can’t just watch as you ignorantly march into imminent danger. You are marrying into a family that’s far more dangerous than anything I ever ventured into. And though they have great wealth, and you will enjoy greater privileges than even I could have obtained for you, never forget this.

  They are monsters. The real thing.

  You don’t say...

  I don’t expect you to believe me--

  Don’t worry, I do...

  One day soon you may find yourself at the mercy of one of these creatures. Keep this dagger on you at all times. It is silver, and will seriously harm most of the sort of monsters you will undoubtedly consort with.

  Best of luck,

  Adam Hart

  Not Daddy, or even your father. Just Adam Hart. As if they were simply business acquaintances.

  She set the box down again, not even looking at the simple silver blade. As if it wanted to remind her that she already had a perfectly good—no, a far superior silver blade on her person already, Mr. Winky shivered against her flesh. She could go weeks without remembering that the delicate, ornately forged dagger was sheathed magically (and undetectably) to her left forearm.

  She couldn’t see the dagger, but when she passed her fingers over the inner flesh of her forearm, she felt it, tracing its graceful lines. It was of fae construct, enchanted in make, in fashion, and in alchemy. It had a near sentient intelligence—and it was most certainly jealous of the simple silver blade that rested inertly in the little red and cream box.

  Her thoughts were unbearable, and the inside of her skull felt like it was being pulled apart. Gales of desperate pain and need flared about her, but she did not let them push their way inside her.

  “Fuck this unholy shit!” she hissed under her breath, and finally opened her eyes.

  She stared blankly at the hallucination that looked back at her from across the street. Her father stood not fifty feet from her, tall, tanned, and impeccably dressed in an Armani gray pinstriped suit. And he looked unaccountably happy to see her.

  She gulped when he winked at her. It was a gesture she’d grown up with. It made her insides bunch up, and made all common sense evaporate immediately.

  He’s here... he’s really here...

  But then he moved. It was only a couple of steps, but she knew her father’s gait, his every physical trait. And whoever, or whatever was standing across the street dressed up in an Adam Hart costume, was not her father. This creature was liquid grace. But Adam Hart had gone to Stanford on a football scholarship, and still had the bulk to prove it.

  Strong, sure, powerful... yes. Graceful like Baryshnikov or Fred Astaire, not a chance.

  Lucy should have gotten up and run into the house. There were three werewolves inside that would’ve loved to chase down the imposter and shred the meat from his bones.

  But for some gruesome reason, she wanted to do it herself.

  Her father moved across the street, swerving away from her and heading back toward the graveyard. Lucy stood, pulled up the comfortably loose jeans she was wearing, and tucked the silver dagger her real father had sent her into her back pocket. She started down the step from the porch and followed.

  ~*~

  Five minutes later Lucy returned to the house, minus the dagger, with some additional bruises, a shallow cut just below her ribs where the shape-shifter masquerading as her father had changed shapes—at least the shape of his hands—and had tried to gut her. Her t-shirt also had a matching tear in it, and ther
e was some blood too. But most of the blood on her hands and splashed across the front of her t-shirt was the shape-shifter’s.

  She’d let him lead her into the little cemetery that lay behind her grandmother’s house. He’d tried to move out of her line of sight, but she’d foreseen his acceleration, and poured on her own speed. She’d acted as if she was just desperate to catch up to her father, and so the shifter had slowed, turned, and held his arms out. No doubt to slip something cold and sharp into her back.

  Lucy flung herself into his arms, but she didn’t embrace him. She already had the wickedly sharp silver blade her real father had just sent her in her hand. She smiled warmly as she sunk the blade deep into the shifter’s chest.

  That’s when he’d sprouted Edward Scissorhands claws and tried to kill her in earnest. But it was too late by then. She’d hit his heart, and even though he was stronger than she, a wound to the heart, especially one hewn by silver, was still a mortal wound.

  Of course she added to that stab wound approximately twenty more stab wounds. All kept to the same six inch area of his chest. She’d turned the shifter’s heart into hamburger. It had been poetic—since she’d used her father’s callous engagement present to murder the thing pretending to be him. But moreover, it had been therapeutic. Stabbing someone to death who had come to kill her had been just what the doctor ordered; that the assassin had been wearing her father’s face, gravy.

  She entered the house and started up the stairs to her room

  Three figures in dark, form fitting clothes appeared silently from around the house. A fourth was moving inhumanly fast down the stairs. “Where have you been?” the tall redhaired werewolf growled. He didn’t seem to appreciate her ducking out on her security detail.

  Wasn’t her fault they had gotten sidetracked by the lemon torte bundt cake Gram had made just that morning.

  “There’s a dead shifter in the graveyard directly behind this house,” she said blandly. She stopped and let her words sink into the copper top werewolf’s head. “I stabbed him to death with a silver dagger.” She looked hard into the werewolf’s eyes. “You’ll need to dispose of the body, and the dagger.”

  And just like that she walked up to and past him, and kept on going until she was in her bedroom.

  She needed to shower and change her clothes before she headed off with the Double Mint Twins to the engagement party. She’d need to really clean under her nails. There was a lot of blood under them.

  Chapter 10

  For the second time that day Lucy’s hair was wet, and her skin damp. She sat on her bed, silently counting down the seconds, the minutes, until Sophie and Olivia arrived and escorted her to the bridal shower. At least it would be a distraction. What had loomed as something she wanted to avoid, but couldn’t, now seemed like the best way to spend her evening. Maybe she would have fun. Maybe the whole thing would go off as planned and she’d enjoy the whole experience.

  Maybe a squadron of highly skilled assassins would crash the party and she’d get to kill one or two.

  Either way, she’d get to wear a pretty dress, get her hair and nails done—she looked at her nails: she’d cleaned the blood from out from under them, but two were broken—and there would be presents.

  All of which she was sure would be nicer than the present her worthless father had sent her. Maybe not as immediately useful, but nicer.

  She heard Olivia’s cultured alto first, telling the guard they were here to pick up the bride-to-be.

  Sophie’s voice was higher, but silky smooth. “She is ready, correct? We have appointments with Jobert and his people within the hour.”

  Lucy recognized the hairstylist’s name. He was flamboyant and snooty, and the most in demand hairdresser in Sacramento. He’d insult her, of course, and then he’d charm and dazzle her with his expertise. That’s how his type worked. She’d look like a knock out when he was finished.

  Lucy sighed, got up off her bed and removed the garment bag that held her dress for the evening from her closet, and her heels. She would change at the salon, after they’d finished primping her, and then they’d be off to the shower.

  She jogged down the stairs, plastering an acceptable smile on her face. She tried to let Olivia and Sophie know that she really did appreciate all they were doing for her. When they laid eyes on her they both gave exasperated gasps of dismay.

  “We need to get you to the salon, ASAP!” Sophie said.

  Olivia plucked the garment bag off Lucy’s shoulder, slid the zipper down, and peeked inside. “Oh, this is lovely!” She glanced at the peach Gucci heels Lucy had in her hand. “Paired with those heels, you’re going to knock them dead.”

  That sounded good. Even though she’d just brutally murdered someone who had been hired to kill her, she was still angry as hell, and itching for another fight... another kill. Killing things made her feel better. She needed very much not to give into those feelings.

  It was bad enough she was surrounded by monsters, she didn’t need to become one herself.

  The sisters ushered Lucy out the front door and into a shell pink Escalade. Sophie drove, and though Lucy started for the back seat, Olivia tried to insisted she take the shotgun position. But Lucy just got in the back. She had her seat belt on before she realized that they didn’t have any guards with them. Not that it wasn’t a relief, but it was odd, taking in to account all the attempts on her life.

  “So no bodyguards?”

  Sophie looked to her via the rear view mirror and tsked at Lucy. “We’ve both been training for battle since we were six years old. I think we can insure you make it to one little bridal shower.”

  Olivia chuckled and turned back to smile at Lucy. “Besides, slaughtering some mangy poachers would be a nice change of pace. We haven’t had a good fight, or even a decent hunt.”

  “Yeah,” Sophie said, glancing at her sister. “Let them bring it on. We’ll murder them!”

  “Speaking of which,” Olivia gave Lucy a most conspiratorial smile, “we heard from a little birdie that you took out an assassin all by your lonesome today.”

  “And it was a shape shifter, too. Very nice.”

  “Thanks,” Lucy said, feeling a little strange about getting kudos for killing something bloodily. Of course, the Enoch family was not your usual, normal billionaire family.

  Olivia looked up into the rearview mirror again and gave Lucy a wink, and then slid the Escalade in through a clog of traffic. “We’ve been trying to find the perfect gift for today. Since this is kind of an engagement/bridal party, we wanted it to be perfect… something special.”

  “And nothing seems to have fit just right.”

  Lucy shook her head. What on earth were they talking about? It almost seemed as if they were talking about bridal shower gifts, but not quite.

  “We’ve been perplexed out of our minds. I really thought that last one would have been a perfect match. After all—” Olivia’s smile was like a winter breeze—cold and so very sharp. “His impersonation of your convict father was absolutely flawless.”

  Lucy looked to Olivia, her stomach sinking. She heard a click, and something zinged through the air of the Escalade. Before she could turn her head to look at Sophie, three sharp leads sunk into the flesh of her chest, and an electrical charge smashed into her. Her head snapped back and the last thing she saw was the ceiling of the Escalade, before it faded, replaced by a harsh, white light.

  ~*~

  April Lyons daydreamed in her tiny cubicle in the accounting department at Enoch Industries headquarters. She couldn’t help it. Last night had been the greatest night of her life. Her live-in-boyfriend of the last two years, Christopher, had met her at the door to their tiny apartment and ushered her down three blocks to see The Avengers at the Cartwright Theater. It was one of those old style theaters that had closed down a decade or more ago, had been bought and restored, and now not only had a full bar, a candy/refreshment counter you’d go rabid for, but also had the most comfortable plush padded seats
imaginable.

  They were both huge Joss Whedon fans. Buffy, Angel, Firefly, Serenity... she’d even read all the X-men comics he’d written a few years back. But between her work and Christopher’s they hadn’t had a chance to go see the biggest movie of the century.

  Secretly she wanted the movie to do gangbusters simply to grease the wheels for a Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie—with the original cast!

  The Avengers had been fantastic, and they’d stopped off and gotten take out Taco Bell—three beef burritos supremes for Christopher, and a Nacho Bell Grande (no beans, double the meat) for her. Christopher went to the kitchen to fetch Pepsis while April pulled X-Men 2 out of their DVD collection. Two hours of superhero fun had only whetted their appetites.

  When Bob, their plump, black and brown wiener dog trotted out of the kitchen, he flung his substantial self up onto the couch and lunged in to lick April’s face. She petted him and hit the play button on the remote control in her hand.

  “The movie’s starting!”

  Silence.

  “Have you taken a look at Bob?” Christopher called from the other room.

  Look at Bob? There was something suspicious in Christopher’s voice. April looked down and saw Bob’s usual pink-camo collar had been switched with a red ribbon and bow. And on cue Bob raised his head. Hanging, glittering from his chubby throat, was the most beautiful diamond ring she’d ever seen.

  She hadn’t heard him come in or approach, which was quite a feat for a six foot three were-Kodiak bear, but he was a shape-shifter, and stealth was a given. She looked up from her vantage on the couch and watched as he lowered himself down to one knee. He had a pair of scissors, liberated Bob of the red bow, and took the ring in his big, strong fingers. He held it up to the light, just as the movie’s music chimed in: Night Crawler took out most of the President’s men during his penetration of the White House.

  “April Lyons...” he said, his voice a hoarse, sexy growl, “will you marry me?”

  April flung herself at him, tackled him, and proceeded to make crazy naked monkey sex with him. At some point, between the first time and the second, she finally said “yes,” and promptly melted into tears. But before you could say Jack Robinson, she had his big, bad furriness pinned on his back, and trying to get her to repeat her answer—because she hadn’t just said yes, it had been a hyper-drive monologue in a tone of voice that probably set every dog in six square blocks to barking.