How to Wake an Undead City

by Edwards, Hailey

  “We have guests arriving soon,” he reminded me. “We should go make ourselves presentable.”

  “Or, and I’m just spitballing here, we could barricade ourselves in my room, use a sigil to block out Lethe when she swears revenge for us not running interference between her and her mom, and pick up where we left off earlier.”

  “How much does her forgiveness cost?”

  “About three dozen donuts.” I shrugged and took his hand. “I can afford it.”

  We stood together and traded the balmy night for Woolly’s cooler interior.

  A line of pack members come to pay their respects snaked down the stairs, and we jostled our way past them onto the crowded landing. With Lethe and Hood busy holding court, we slipped into my bedroom without incident. But before I finished drawing the privacy sigil, cool hands bracketed my hips, and I glanced over my shoulder to find lean muscle covered in ink on display for my ogling pleasure.

  Given permission, I looked my fill. “You seem to have lost your shirt.”

  “Fiancée or not,” he said seriously, “boxers seemed too presumptuous.”

  Amused that he thought it was possible I didn’t want him, I replied just as solemnly, “You deemed the shirt the lesser of two evils?”

  “The tattoos have an effect on you.” His expression wasn’t confidence, but calculation. “It seemed the safer bet.”

  “I can see how you might think that.” Turning in his arms, I brushed my fingertips over the intricate designs marking his skin. “You could always say you tripped and your shirt fell off, but bare legs are much harder to explain.”

  “You see my point.”

  “No,” I said, tongue in cheek, “but I feel it.”

  “Hmm.”

  “That sounds ominous.” And yet I couldn’t find it in myself to mind as he began easing me out of my clothes, even when mischievous black wisps curled off his fingertips everywhere they touched me. “What are you—?”

  The cool mist built until it blanketed the room in absolute darkness. I froze, unable to see through the gloom, and my heart started pounding. I wet my lips, anticipation raising gooseflesh as much as the lower temperature.

  “You’re not playing fair,” I complained into the abyss. “How am I supposed to ravish you when I can’t see you?”

  “I’ll be doing the ravishing this evening.” His voice came from behind me, and I spun. “You give so much of yourself, let me give this back to you.”

  Pretending to agree, I waited until he put his hands on me, slid his fingers into the elastic band of my panties, the only clothing he’d left me, and slid them down my thighs. With him bent over, it was laughably easy to tip him off balance.

  Air whooshed from his lungs when he hit the floor, not in pain but surprise. “Grier?”

  “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” Kneeling, I groped my way up his thighs to his hips. An accidental side trip along the way caused him to suck in the breath he had lost, and I smiled as I reached for his waistband. “Oops.”

  “Grier.”

  “Hey, I apologized.” I tugged his underwear down in a smooth glide. “You didn’t fall that hard.”

  “You said oops,” he hissed as my lips followed the trail made by my eager fingers.

  “Haven’t you heard?” I climbed over him, settling my weight on his upper thighs and leaning forward to nibble his hipbone. “It’s the thought that counts.”

  When I took him in my mouth, he speared his fingers through my hair and groaned. Fascinated by the sting in my scalp, the slight loss in his flawless control, I took him deeper, coaxed him higher.

  And then I was the one flying, lost in the dark as his cool hands lifted me over him. I braced my palms on the floor to either side of his head then moaned when he gripped my thighs and sank into me. I leaned down so our chests brushed with each of his thrusts, and I turned my face into the column of his throat. I worried the tender skin there with my teeth, and when he slid a hand between us, I bit down too hard and drew blood. More potent than champagne, the heady punch of his flavor went straight to my head.

  The feel of him in my body, the taste of him on my tongue, was too much. I crushed my eyes shut as first one and then a second orgasm rippled through me. Lips still on his neck, kissing away the small hurt, I whispered, “I love you, Linus.”

  The words caused his steady rhythm to falter, and he came sighing my name into my ear.

  Tremors quivered through his arms when he locked them around me, holding me flush against him, accepting what he needed, what he wanted, what I was so happy to give now that he had embraced his right to take it from me.

  An eternity later, after my eyes uncrossed and the darkness abated, I kissed the bruise rising on his neck. “I didn’t mean to break the skin.”

  His hands traveled up and down my back, exploring the less visible knobs of my spine. “I don’t mind.”

  “I’ll use a sigil to heal it,” I offered. “I just have to get feeling back in my…everything.”

  “I don’t mind,” he said again, his voice warmer and more relaxed.

  Unsticking my damp chest from his, I narrowed my eyes on him. “You liked it.”

  “It wasn’t altogether unpleasant.” His lips tweaked in the promise of a smile. “You would be cutting out the middleman.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” I tried for scandalized but probably failed. “You want me to feed from you.” I tapped my nails on his chest, over the tattooed city seal of Atlanta. “You have a secret vampire kink.”

  “Vampires hold no appeal.” He stared at my mouth. “You, however…”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I twisted his nipple and relished his yelp. “You’re not fooling me. You’ve got your science face on.”

  “I might be curious about the long-term effects of a goddess-touched necromancer feeding on a fellow necromancer. Both on the subject and the donor.” Rubbing his abused chest, he shrugged. “I can’t turn off my brain.”

  “There is that whole dying thing,” I said dryly. “I’m not saying you should flip the switch, just maybe dial it down, especially when we’re supposed to be basking in the afterglow.” Dragging my fingers through his hair, I smiled down at him. “I like you like this.”

  “At your mercy?”

  “All that veneer cracked, the layers peeled away. You look…rumpled. With a side order of smug.” I shifted my hips and pretended not to notice his rising interest before he distracted me. “You should look smug more often.”

  “I promise to be smug as often as you’re willing to rumple me.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Searching my face, he murmured, “I’m sorry your romantic evening didn’t go entirely as planned.”

  “Things might have gone a tad off script.” I pressed a kiss over his heart. “But you did agree to marry me while not under duress, so that was nice. You got bling, I got bling, and we helped Lethe give birth to the cutest baby girl I’ve ever delivered. I don’t know about you, but I’m impressed with us.”

  “Come on.” He helped me up, led me to the bed, thick with extra blankets on his side, and lifted the covers. “Climb in.”

  I did, happily, and he crawled in after me. Once he settled on his pillow, I draped myself across his chest. His arms came around me, and I pressed a smile into his skin when his breathing changed. I fell asleep to the steady beat of his heart, content with our off-script night—our off-script life—and ready to embrace whatever the goddess had in store for us next.

  * * *

  Already Missing Lier?

  While How to Wake an Undead City wraps up Linus and Grier’s main story arc, we’ll be seeing them again in a series of novellas that kicks off with How to Kiss an Undead Bride and ties up a few loose ends.

  Join my newsletter or my Facebook group to keep an eye out for your invitation to the wedding!

  I also hope you’ll join me for Shadow of Doubt, the first book in TBGTN spinoff, The Potentate of Atlanta.

  Sure Linus is hot a
nd all, but could you survive having him for a boss? Amelie—make that Hadley—is about to find out.

  Turn the page to read the first chapter of Shadow of Doubt!

  Shadow of Doubt

  The Potentate of Atlanta, Book One

  Chapter One

  Regret tasted like a discount food truck taco. Frak. I might still be new to the city, but Sal swore on his mother’s grave he used real chicken this time, and I bought it. Literally. Goddess only knows what he fed his regular customers until the health department caught up with him. Hence tonight’s discount. He was trying to lure in a fresh crop of suckers, and my forehead must have looked freshly stamped.

  Rinsing my mouth out with a gulp of flat soda of undetermined flavor, I was tempted to chase this bad idea with another one. The Italian ice stand the next block down made for a good palate cleanser, but they served at a glacial pace worthy of their product, and I wanted to finish watching Robot Space Tentacles Attack Earth before I called it a day.

  The shadow pretending to be mine unspooled its grasping fingers across the sidewalk in front of me and made a gimme motion.

  “Fine.” I tossed my half-eaten meal, wrapper and all, into the darkness where it vanished. “Don’t come whining to me if it makes you sick.”

  The fingers shifted into a hand and formed the letter C. No. Wait. It mimed holding a drink.

  “Are you serious?” I lifted my cup and got a thumbs-up in response. “Hope you like backwash.”

  The void swallowed my offering and snapped back into shape, mimicking me once again.

  This is what I got for feeding it Tootsie Rolls for good behavior. Now it wanted a taste of everything.

  Halfway down Peachtree Street NW, I got a text from Bishop, who might as well have been my parole officer given how often he required check-ins when the boss was out of town. Rumor had it he had been a desk jockey prior to my arrival. Lucky me, he had decided—or the potentate had decided for him—to hit the streets to keep a particular eye on the newest member of Team Atlanta.

  >>We got trouble.

  Nice and vague, just the way I like it.

  >>Details to follow.

  An address popped onscreen that forced me to pull up the GPS app.

  I had been a resident of Atlanta for a year and two days, but Peachtree Streets still looked the same to me.

  On my way.

  Using a rideshare app exclusive to the city’s paranormal population, I arranged for transportation. I didn’t have to wait long for a sporty two-seater painted lime green with black racing stripes to squeal up to the curb. The driver honked twice, and when I didn’t break my neck sprinting around the car, she lowered her window.

  Skin so pale it was translucent, I figured her for a vampire, but she hadn’t sent a warning tingle up my spine. Her wide blue eyes, the color of her pronounced veins, locked on me like a tractor beam, like her will alone could haul me into the passenger seat. Her spiked pixie cut highlighted the roundness in her cheeks, and the elastics on her braces matched her hair and her wheels.

  Open palm smacking her door, she called out, “Are you coming or what?”

  Looking her over, I felt my eyebrows climb. “Are you old enough to drive?”

  Returning the favor, she leaned out farther. “Do you see a student driver sticker, lady?”

  Another texted nudge from Bishop forced me to take my chances. “Let’s go.”

  I climbed in beside her, noted the aftermarket stereo system that belonged on a spaceship, and exhaled through my teeth.

  “I’m an ace driver,” the girl snarled. “Stop huffing and puffing over there.”

  “Does your attitude get you many tips?” I strapped in. “How about positive reviews?”

  In another life, I had taken pride in the number of glowing reviews I collected on the job. Those were the days. I didn’t get thanked for the one I did now, and I sure didn’t earn any tips. Heck, I considered it a good night if I made it home without blood on my clothes or spit in my hair, and those were the more sanitary bodily fluids that got splashed on me.

  “I have to make rent.” She stomped on the accelerator but mercifully left the radio off. “To do that, I zip as many slow pokes across town as I can in a night. Gas don’t pay for itself. Neither do groceries. Maybe keep that in mind when you’re typing up the review I can hear you mentally composing over there.”

  That stupid taco came back to haunt me as she cut lanes, slashed through an exit, then slammed on her brakes.

  I swallowed it back down, hit release on my seat belt, then reached for the handle. “Thanks for the lift.”

  “What’s he doing here?” the girl mumbled. “Hey.” She locked the doors. “What’s he doing here?”

  “You’ve got to be more specific.” A manned barricade blocked the sidewalk. “Who?”

  “Midas Kinase.”

  The sound of his name broke cold sweat across my forehead. “I don’t know.”

  But I could guess, and I would need only one. The Atlanta gwyllgi pack wouldn’t trot out its heir and chief enforcer for anything less than a capital crime involving a pack member in good standing. And the last thing I needed was to cross paths with him—or his keen nose.

  Gwyllgi scent memories filed away all sorts of information, meaning my identity was only a sniff away. I had taken precautions, magical ones, but this wasn’t how I wanted to learn if I had bought the promised charm or just an old silver band that sometimes turned my finger green.

  “You’re Hadley Whitaker.” Her eyes rounded until they swallowed her face. “The Hadley Whitaker. I saw your name pop up on the app, but…geez. You’re really her?”

  “Yep.” I tapped on the window so she would take the hint. “I’m really me.”

  “No shit?” She all but bounced in her seat. “You know the Potentate of Atlanta?”

  Linus Andreas Lawson II.

  Appointed by the Society for Post-Life Management, the ruling body for necromancers, over which his mother presided, to protect and serve this city.

  Chills broke over my arms thinking of him, and my heart kicked hard once. “He’s my boss.”

  “You’re like his heir, right? Scion? I forget what you corpse-raisers call it.”

  Corpse-raiser.

  This kid could teach a master class on how not to get repeat business.

  “Right now, I’m a lowly employee of the Office of the Potentate. One day, if I play my cards right, I might get promoted to upper management.”

  “Wow.” She sank back against her seat. “He’s pretty hot if you’re into the grim reaper type.”

  Once upon a time, I might have agreed with her. But on bad nights, I still dreamed of him.

  The moth-eaten black cloak that hung from his shoulders, the threadbare cowl that hid his pale face. All that, I could stomach, but his scythe…the way moonlight glinted off its blade when he raised it to strike a killing blow…

  I stood on the right side of the law these days, but one look at him had me feeling cold steel parting the warm flesh at my throat.

  “Is this like official business?” She scanned the scene. “Did someone bite it?”

  While she gawked, I manually unlocked my door. “That’s classified.”

  “That’s a yes.” She grinned at me, metal glinting over needle-sharp teeth that made me wonder if she wasn’t as pixie as her hairstyle. “I’ll be in the area if you want to call me up special.” She passed me a crumpled piece of paper trimmed into a lopsided rectangle. On the front, she had painstakingly drawn a business card with colorful markers. On the back, she had crossed out the last four digits of her debit card number on a receipt for takeout. “The app won’t let you pick who you get, but I’ll charge their rates for a private ride.”

  “I appreciate it.” I tucked the slip into my wallet so as not to ding her pride. “See you around.”

  As I stepped onto the curb, she peeled out, blasting rap music that rattled my bones from three feet away. She hadn’t given me a chance to shut the door,
so she yanked the wheel hard to one side and let momentum slam it for her.

  “Goddess,” I muttered, grateful to have survived the experience.

  “Buy a car,” Bishop advised, crossing the barricade to stand with me. “You won’t suffer so many near-death experiences.”

  Adrenaline still pumping, I glanced over my shoulder. “Do you have one?”

  “Hell no.” A shudder rippled through his broad shoulders. “People drive like maniacs here.”

  Russet brown streaked the snow-white hair he kept trimmed short and styled neat. Not much. Just enough to tell me he had fallen off the wagon. His eyes, usually a brilliant titanium, were tinted the milky green of the corpse he had no doubt left in his wake.

  “I heard Midas Kinase is here.”

  “Yeah. The victim is gwyllgi.” Bishop studied me. “That a problem?”

  “No,” I lied, and he pretended to believe me.

  “Come on.” He led me to where sentinels, Low Society necromancers undercover with the Atlanta Police Department, held the line. “The pack reps are waiting for you.”

  “Goody.” I had successfully avoided all remnants of my past life since arriving in Atlanta, but it looked like my number was up. “It just had to be a gwyllgi.”

  “You got this,” Bishop murmured, misreading my hesitation.

  Ahead, two men cut from the same cloth stood watch over their dead. Gwyllgi varied in height, but they ran toward beefy—in a sink-your-teeth-in kind of way—and these two were no exception. They lifted their heads in tandem upon scenting us and joined us at the barricade.

  “Hadley,” Ford said, his voice warm. “This your scene, darlin’?”

  Ford Bentley, who had cracked a joke about his name the first time we met, wasn’t laughing now. As the pack liaison with our office, he and I were on friendly-enough terms. Enough I recognized the endearment wasn’t a come-on or condescension but simply polite habit.