I found this sneak peak of chapter 1! I can not wait!
Excerpt from: Undead and Unfinished
To be released July 6, 2010
Chapter One
I would never have gone to Hell in the first place if the Anti-Christ hadn’t been fluent in Tagalong. Talk about your perfect storm of paranormal weirdness...and on Halloween, too.
Okay, so, I’ll back up. This whole mess started simply enough (they always, always do): Bloomingdale’s was having a shoe sale and for once, the retail time warp worked in my favor.
Okay, I’ll back up more. You know how stores are actually about four months ahead of the actual calendar? Like Halloween decorations on sale the day after Easter (pardon me while I embrace the horror)? Like that. So anyway, even though it was Halloween, they were having their spring shoe sale (because when there’s a foot of snow on the ground, everybody wants to buy sandals, right?). And the Anti-Christ asked if she could tag along, so I said okay.
I...said...okay! You’d think I hadn’t been paying attention the last four years. Okay, I haven’t been. Still: how could I not see the coming disaster? It shouldn’t have mattered that the Anti-Christ needed a new pair of loafers. I should have realized that an innocent quest for fine leather footwear would have ended up with me in Hell and the Anti-Christ freaking out. Again.
Right. The Anti-Christ. I should probably explain that, too. My half-sister, Laura, was fathered by my, uh, father. Dear Old Dad was banging away at my stepmother, the wretch formerly known as Antonia and whom I had always called the Ant, and Dim Old Dad didn’t notice she was possessed by Satan. I’m betting devil-possessed Ant isn’t any worse than non-devil possessed Ant, which is a sad commentary on my father’s taste in second wives.
The thing is, Satan hated pregnancy, delivery, and breast-feeding. So she did the whole “baby on the doorstep” thing and beat feet back to Hell.
So my sister, who was raised by a minister, is not only the Anti-Christ, it’s been foretold she’ll take over the world. Possibly between donating blood and teaching Sunday school.
But! I will be the first to admit, the Anti Christ is nice. Works in homeless shelters, runs blood drives (kind of hilarious, given that her sister is a vampire), makes cupcakes for church bake sales. Chocolate ones. With real buttercream frosting. Buttercream, not the colored Crisco grocery stores try to pass off as frosting. Ummmm.
God, I miss solid food.
Of course, Laura’s got a temper. Who doesn’t? And occasionally she loses it and then slaughters anyone she can get her hands on. That gets awkward, kind of. And she’s totally conflicted about the undead. Which is actually a pretty normal reaction to vampires.
Her temper and occasional forays into psychopathic rage were why we were meeting tonight at the Mall of America. Laura had sort of tried to kill me a couple of months ago, and still felt crummy about it. She detested conspicuous consumerism and also shopping, which is why her offer to go to my personal Graceland was an olive branch.
I had risen from my unholy grave (bed, actually, with navy blue flannel sheets from Target—it was November, and I’m not a savage), devoured an innocent for breakfast (a tripleberry smoothie; a perk of being the Queen of the Undead was that I didn’t have to suck down blood every day, though to be honest, I always want to), then commandeered my sinister chariot (Ford Hybrid Escape) and was mallward bound.
I parked in the East Parking Lot, second floor—lots of my favorites were on that side, including William Sonoma and Coach—not that I’d ever cough up four hundred bucks for a knapsack that looked like it was designed by a bright second grader. Also, Tiger Sushi was there, and Laura was seriously addicted to their Tiger Balls. Yeah, that’s right, I said balls. Grow up, why doncha?
So I forced a smile as I marched toward a restaurant that sold seaweed, rice, and raw fish for a profit margin of several hundred percent. The sushi thing. I didn’t get it and I never would. I’d been fishing too much as a kid; I couldn’t make myself eat bait. No matter how fresh it was.
I spotted Laura while I was still thirty feet away, and it had nothing to do with my super-cool vampire powers. Laura was just ridiculously gorgeous, all the time. So annoying.
Look, it’s not envy, okay? Well, not extreme envy. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not one of those girls who pretends they have no idea they’re mega-cute. I’m cute; I freely confess. Tall and blonde (big surprise in Minnesota...we’re about as rare as yellow snow in the dog park); pale skin, light eyes. Never really had to fight the fat, and being undead means I’ll be slender forever. The phrase “I’m at my winter weight” no longer has power over me. My senior year I was a contestant in the Miss Burnsville pageant and went home with the Miss Congeniality sash, sort of the “you’re not the prettiest or the most talented, but the other gals thought you were nice” consolation prize. I don’t exactly drink my water out of a dog dish.
Laura, though.
Breathtaking. Gorgeous. And, as my friend Marc put it, “mouth-watering”.
My gay friend Marc.
And there she was, standing with someone I didn’t know, gesturing wildly in the manner of the native Minnesotan (or, perhaps, The Omen). And as I approached I remembered the real reason the Spawn of Satan and My Dead Stepmother made me so uneasy.
She was just annoyingly stunning, all the time. One of those (vomit) natural beauties. Elbow-length hair the color of corn silk. Big blue eyes. First day of spring blue. Cloudless summer day blue. Really really gorgeous blue. Oh, and thin—did I have to tell you that? I probably didn’t have to tell you that.
Great tits, of course, and always primly secured in a 36-B bra. Long legs—she was just a hair shorter than me, and I topped out at six feet—clad in truly faded blue jeans. Not ‘pre-washed and faded’ blue jeans...Laura’s mom bought them new (yeah, her adopted mom still bought most of her clothes, though the girl was a student at the U of M). Then Laura wore them and wore them and wore them until they were actually faded, ripped, etc. Waste was a sin, after all. Oh! And let’s not forget the Spawn of Satan’s flawless creamy complexion, courtesy of Noxema.
And faded running shoes, I realized as I got closer. Also by Target. Running shoes! Who wore those to go buy sandals? She’d have to sit down and pull off her shoes and socks each time she...argh, it was going to make me nuts just thinking about it, so I thought about something else. Like the woman she was waving at. It wasn’t a surprise the Antichrist was talking to someone; it was a surprise she wasn’t followed around by packs of men and women and small children, all the time. In addition to being gorgeous, people just naturally flocked to Laura. Like I said—for the Antichrist, she was pretty nice.
Except, I realized as I got close enough for her to notice me, she wasn’t talking to the woman. And she wasn’t waving at her, either. Both sets of hands were flying—Laura had either gone deaf, or recently become fluent in American Sign Language.
I can not wait!
Excerpt from: Undead and Unfinished
To be released July 6, 2010
Chapter One
I would never have gone to Hell in the first place if the Anti-Christ hadn’t been fluent in Tagalong. Talk about your perfect storm of paranormal weirdness...and on Halloween, too.
Okay, so, I’ll back up. This whole mess started simply enough (they always, always do): Bloomingdale’s was having a shoe sale and for once, the retail time warp worked in my favor.
Okay, I’ll back up more. You know how stores are actually about four months ahead of the actual calendar? Like Halloween decorations on sale the day after Easter (pardon me while I embrace the horror)? Like that. So anyway, even though it was Halloween, they were having their spring shoe sale (because when there’s a foot of snow on the ground, everybody wants to buy sandals, right?). And the Anti-Christ asked if she could tag along, so I said okay.
I...said...okay! You’d think I hadn’t been paying attention the last four years. Okay, I haven’t been. Still: how could I not see the coming disaster? It shouldn’t have mattered that the Anti-Christ needed a new pair of loafers. I should have realized that an innocent quest for fine leather footwear would have ended up with me in Hell and the Anti-Christ freaking out. Again.
Right. The Anti-Christ. I should probably explain that, too. My half-sister, Laura, was fathered by my, uh, father. Dear Old Dad was banging away at my stepmother, the wretch formerly known as Antonia and whom I had always called the Ant, and Dim Old Dad didn’t notice she was possessed by Satan. I’m betting devil-possessed Ant isn’t any worse than non-devil possessed Ant, which is a sad commentary on my father’s taste in second wives.
The thing is, Satan hated pregnancy, delivery, and breast-feeding. So she did the whole “baby on the doorstep” thing and beat feet back to Hell.
So my sister, who was raised by a minister, is not only the Anti-Christ, it’s been foretold she’ll take over the world. Possibly between donating blood and teaching Sunday school.
But! I will be the first to admit, the Anti Christ is nice. Works in homeless shelters, runs blood drives (kind of hilarious, given that her sister is a vampire), makes cupcakes for church bake sales. Chocolate ones. With real buttercream frosting. Buttercream, not the colored Crisco grocery stores try to pass off as frosting. Ummmm.
God, I miss solid food.
Of course, Laura’s got a temper. Who doesn’t? And occasionally she loses it and then slaughters anyone she can get her hands on. That gets awkward, kind of. And she’s totally conflicted about the undead. Which is actually a pretty normal reaction to vampires.
Her temper and occasional forays into psychopathic rage were why we were meeting tonight at the Mall of America. Laura had sort of tried to kill me a couple of months ago, and still felt crummy about it. She detested conspicuous consumerism and also shopping, which is why her offer to go to my personal Graceland was an olive branch.
I had risen from my unholy grave (bed, actually, with navy blue flannel sheets from Target—it was November, and I’m not a savage), devoured an innocent for breakfast (a tripleberry smoothie; a perk of being the Queen of the Undead was that I didn’t have to suck down blood every day, though to be honest, I always want to), then commandeered my sinister chariot (Ford Hybrid Escape) and was mallward bound.
I parked in the East Parking Lot, second floor—lots of my favorites were on that side, including William Sonoma and Coach—not that I’d ever cough up four hundred bucks for a knapsack that looked like it was designed by a bright second grader. Also, Tiger Sushi was there, and Laura was seriously addicted to their Tiger Balls. Yeah, that’s right, I said balls. Grow up, why doncha?
So I forced a smile as I marched toward a restaurant that sold seaweed, rice, and raw fish for a profit margin of several hundred percent. The sushi thing. I didn’t get it and I never would. I’d been fishing too much as a kid; I couldn’t make myself eat bait. No matter how fresh it was.
I spotted Laura while I was still thirty feet away, and it had nothing to do with my super-cool vampire powers. Laura was just ridiculously gorgeous, all the time. So annoying.
Look, it’s not envy, okay? Well, not extreme envy. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not one of those girls who pretends they have no idea they’re mega-cute. I’m cute; I freely confess. Tall and blonde (big surprise in Minnesota...we’re about as rare as yellow snow in the dog park); pale skin, light eyes. Never really had to fight the fat, and being undead means I’ll be slender forever. The phrase “I’m at my winter weight” no longer has power over me. My senior year I was a contestant in the Miss Burnsville pageant and went home with the Miss Congeniality sash, sort of the “you’re not the prettiest or the most talented, but the other gals thought you were nice” consolation prize. I don’t exactly drink my water out of a dog dish.
Laura, though.
Breathtaking. Gorgeous. And, as my friend Marc put it, “mouth-watering”.
My gay friend Marc.
And there she was, standing with someone I didn’t know, gesturing wildly in the manner of the native Minnesotan (or, perhaps, The Omen). And as I approached I remembered the real reason the Spawn of Satan and My Dead Stepmother made me so uneasy.
She was just annoyingly stunning, all the time. One of those (vomit) natural beauties. Elbow-length hair the color of corn silk. Big blue eyes. First day of spring blue. Cloudless summer day blue. Really really gorgeous blue. Oh, and thin—did I have to tell you that? I probably didn’t have to tell you that.
Great tits, of course, and always primly secured in a 36-B bra. Long legs—she was just a hair shorter than me, and I topped out at six feet—clad in truly faded blue jeans. Not ‘pre-washed and faded’ blue jeans...Laura’s mom bought them new (yeah, her adopted mom still bought most of her clothes, though the girl was a student at the U of M). Then Laura wore them and wore them and wore them until they were actually faded, ripped, etc. Waste was a sin, after all. Oh! And let’s not forget the Spawn of Satan’s flawless creamy complexion, courtesy of Noxema.
And faded running shoes, I realized as I got closer. Also by Target. Running shoes! Who wore those to go buy sandals? She’d have to sit down and pull off her shoes and socks each time she...argh, it was going to make me nuts just thinking about it, so I thought about something else. Like the woman she was waving at. It wasn’t a surprise the Antichrist was talking to someone; it was a surprise she wasn’t followed around by packs of men and women and small children, all the time. In addition to being gorgeous, people just naturally flocked to Laura. Like I said—for the Antichrist, she was pretty nice.
Except, I realized as I got close enough for her to notice me, she wasn’t talking to the woman. And she wasn’t waving at her, either. Both sets of hands were flying—Laura had either gone deaf, or recently become fluent in American Sign Language.