Hell's Son: Hell's Son, #0

By Eve Langlais

It's time for the antichrist to fulfill his destiny.

Things are getting complicated on Earth. Dark forces are rising, along with the dead, and only Chris can stop the coming apocalypse. Talk about pressure. Point him to the nearest bar. This calls for more beer.

• Lazy Son : Being Lucifer's only son shouldn't be so much work.
• Jilted Prince : Left at the altar, Chris must find a way to fulfill the devil's bargain. 
• Hell's King : To become the supreme ruler of Hell, Lucifer must die.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eve Langlais
• Release date: Oct 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781773842882

Eve Langlais

New York Times and USA Today bestseller, Eve Langlais, is a Canadian romance author who is known for stories that combine quirky storylines, humor and passion.

Book preview

Hell’s Son

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Hell’s Son

Books 1 - 3

Eve Langlais

New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author

Copyright © January 2017/2021, Eve Langlais

Cover Art Eerilyfair Design © 2021

Produced in Canada

Published by Eve Langlais ~ www.EveLanglais.com

E-ISBN: 978-177-384-288 2

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This book is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or deceased, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to digital copying, file sharing, audio recording, email and printing without permission in writing from the author.

Contents

Foreword

Lazy Son

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

18. Hellish Interlude

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Jilted Prince

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

9. A Motherly Interlude

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

13. A Hellish Interlude

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

18. A Hellish Interlude

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

25. A Hellish Interlude

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

28. Motherly Interlude

Epilogue

Hell’s King

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

Foreword

To those familiar with Princess of Hell, Welcome to Hell, and Wickedest Witch, this first book in the Hell’s Son series takes place before all of those. Before Lucifer knows he has a son. Before Muriel meets her brother. And before the wedding in Wickedest Witch.

This is the story of Christopher’s discovery and the beginning of his fascinating story as the Antichrist. Enjoy, and welcome to my version of Hell.

~Eve

Lazy Son

Being Lucifer’s only son shouldn’t be so much work.

Christopher might be the Antichrist, but taking over the world and leading the minions of darkness sounds like a lot of work. And while slacking is a sin his supposed dad, Lucifer, approves of, his lack of goals is a problem.

Personally, Christopher would rather just work hard enough to make ends meet—and maybe buy a six-pack. But the guy who calls himself Dad insists on him taking an interest in the family business. Oh, and because of some deal with the Devil, Christopher is expected to get married.

Before he can get hitched, though, there’s a problem with the dead rising and an even bigger issue with the girl who refuses to sleep with him. It’s time for this lazy prince to rise to the occasion and embrace destiny—or at least make out with it.

1

It wasn’t easy being the antichrist.

From an early age, Christopher knew there was something different about him, and not just because his mother told him he was special, which, he might add, she did quite often. For as far back as he could remember, things seemed to happen around him.

Unexplainable things.

During his teen years in foster care, the social workers forced him to see psychiatrists, who tried to convince him that the strangeness he encountered—the really weird shit like seeing things no one else could—was his imagination. They claimed he lied.

For example, when his foster mother’s wig spontaneously caught on fire—hideous thing that looked much better as a pile of ash—they blamed Chris, claiming he must have tossed a match in the snarled mess.

As for the kid who thought he could steal Chris’s homework and pass it off as his own, they thought it just a coincidence that the boy ended up sprinting naked across the football field with the words I’m a cheater emblazoned on his chest. They said a guilty conscience was to blame.

And they didn’t believe Chris at all when he claimed a creature from another dimension with razor-sharp teeth had stolen a pie from the counter where it cooled. Lie. That incident could totally be blamed on Chris, but in his defense, he had to steal it, because he was higher than a newt licking a toad. Everyone knew when a boy got a case of the munchies he had to feed it.

But back to his shrinks and their belief that the weirdness in his life was just a coincidence. They spouted things like logical explanation and vivid imagination. They seemed to think that Chris’s years as the only child in a cult that revolved around him and their belief that he was the Antichrist—I totally am—might be part of the reason why he felt the world behaved differently for him.

They never could grasp that the world revolves around me for I am destined to be the Destroyer of Nations.

More than one shrink had tried, using big words and sometimes dolls—Has anyone ever touched you here?—to convince Chris that he was simply a regular kid. They bandied words about, including dissociative disorder, religious delusions, and schizophrenia. One even called him a narcissistic sociopath, while another claimed he had Daddy abandonment issues.

Chris begged to differ. He really didn’t care who had donated the sperm for the egg that created him. In his world, it was all about him and the destiny his mother claimed awaited him.

From birth, the cult and his mother regaled Chris with stories and told him to expect great things of himself. Everything he did became a cause for celebration—bowel movements, a lost tooth, his first glorious F on a test. The detention for talking back to his teachers—he got a cake for that one.

Chris could do no wrong—or was that right?—because he made his own rules. He called the shots, which was why, for a period, the entire group that worshipped him ate pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

That all changed the day the cops arraigned his mom for murder.

In her defense, she’d only wanted to protect Christopher. It seemed Freddy, her boyfriend at the time, having had a near-death experience—and a wild trip while doing ’shrooms—had found religion. Freddy thought his mission in life was to rid the world of the Devil’s son.

In other words, he wanted to kill Chris, the Antichrist—whom his mother called the Sun of the Morning when stroking his hair during story time.

Of course, Chris’s mother, Clarice, hadn’t appreciated her boyfriend’s attempts to poison Chris with holy water. Damned stuff gave him a fierce stomachache. Chris simply said, Make him go away. I don’t like him.

So, his mother killed her boyfriend. Proudly announced it to the cops when they came to arrest her. Giggled during the sentencing and blew Chris kisses.

He was ten at the time, and to this day, he still made sure to visit her in jail on Mother’s Day, the only day they grudgingly allowed her out of solitary on account that she liked to sacrifice guards—since they wouldn’t give her goats—to read the future in their entrails. Being behind bars hadn’t changed her one bit. Bless her psychotic heart.

Having grown up as part of a cult, you’d think Chris would have a strong belief in God and the Devil.

You’d be wrong. He personally thought all religions were an epic hoax perpetrated on a world looking for easy answers—and idiots who liked to throw money at fat, pompous men in robes. Despite his cult years and the title of Antichrist, The Prince that Shall Come, and, his personal favorite, The Abomination of Desolation, Chris didn’t believe in anything but his obvious superiority to everyone else.

If only the world would recognize it.

Until they did and showered him with riches, Chris was forced to work and make a living. I know, the horror of it. If he truly was a prince in waiting, shouldn’t people be working for him?

Currently, Chris lived in South Carolina, more accurately in a cemetery, and no, he didn’t have a home in a box six feet under. Nor was he dead—even if the pile of empty liquor bottles outside in the recycling bins seemed to indicate a good job at pickling his liver.

Chris chose to live in a cemetery because, for one, it provided him the shortest commute to work and, two, it was cheap.

Funny thing, no one wanted to stay in the little caretaker cottage on the edge of the property because of claims that it was haunted. However, cold spots, doors that slammed shut, and the occasional rattle of chains didn’t bother Chris. He gladly took up residence, especially since he paid no rent and got a salary on top of it.

The gimmick? Dig the occasional grave when the machinery was on the fritz, and keep the teenagers from spraying graffiti or pushing over headstones. It only took him pinning down a few hooligans and using a permanent marker on them, drawing things like penises and happy faces on their foreheads, before the delinquents that would one day serve him gave up.

Then there was the unofficial part of his job that involved slaying the undead. Not that he’d met any yet; however, Chris knew the dead would one day rise, and when they did, he’d be ready. In the meantime, he practiced his zombie slaying skills, which had proven impossible to explain to Marty, the cop that used to patrol the area. When Chris had been found with the body of that girl, he’d tried to explain about the zombie slaying training and insisted that he was not doing his own live video of Mary Jane’s Last Dance. But the cop wouldn’t listen. Marty called him a pervert and declared that he would report Chris.

Which would have sucked and probably meant a stint in the mental hospital.

Again.

Alas, poor Marty never did file that report. According to the news, Marty never saw the groundhog that ran out in front of him and sent him flying into a ditch full of water.

A few days after, Chris buried him, and so far, Marty hadn’t risen. A shame because, as soon as Marty did, Chris planned to say, Told you the zombies were coming.

Zombies weren’t the only thing coming. His destiny would arrive one day, too. Eventually. Hopefully soon, because that was his life in a nutshell.

Boring and sucky.

No wonder he drank. Having reached his late twenties, the brash belief of his youth proved harder and harder to hold on to.

Where was this great destiny promised to Chris? The adulation? The women? Although, he should mention, getting women didn’t prove all that hard. Keeping them, though? Apparently, his Antichrist status freaked them out, although they hid it behind claims of Chris’s laziness and lack of goals in life. One by one, they all left.

Which was fine. Who wanted a clingy broad anyhow?

I do. Because then, perhaps he wouldn’t feel so alone—and he wouldn’t have to rely so much on his hand.

He also wouldn’t be sitting alone in his cottage with nothing to do.

It being a Tuesday, things were slow. As in, no bodies to bury, and even if there had been, the spring rains made the ground soft and easy to move with the machine. Evening fell. Another day done. Another night of watching mindless shows.

Little did he know, the lack of excitement in his life was about to change.

There arose a disturbance in the force. A real one. His phone pinged as the app he’d installed let him know someone had set off a motion detector. Yes, even the Antichrist had to rely on modern technology rather than an innate ability to sense things beyond the human veil of reality.

Magic didn’t exist. Not even the Jedi kind. If you wanted to see real magic, then you needed to chew on the wild ’shrooms that Chris cultivated behind a few of the older headstones. Those made you see some seriously fucked-up shit.

Just last week, while tripping hard, he’d seen a figure wearing a head-to-toe cloak, which undulated and shifted as if made of mist, standing outside the sanctified grounds of the cemetery. He could have sworn he heard her whisper, Ssson…

Crazy hallucination. His mother never stood that tall, and besides, the prison would have let him know if she had busted out.

Beep. Buzz. Beep. Buzz. His phone kept up its warning of an intruder. Probably teenagers again.

Rolling his lanky frame out of his reclining armchair, a wondrous thing covered in a patchwork of plaid because the fabric patches were easy to glue onto the worn spots, Chris slid on a pair of weathered, steel-toed boots—good for accidental shovel drops and in case of the apocalypse, zombie head kicking—leaving them unlaced. The effort to bend over and tie them? Not worth it.

Before heading out the door, he grabbed a thick, quilted lumber jacket because even this late in spring the evenings remained cool. Evenings were also usually work-free. It was the holidays that forced him to work harder than he liked. So who dared disturb his exciting evening of chilling with a movie and his hand? He tucked a permanent marker into his back pocket, just in case he needed to draw a lesson on someone.

The cemetery surrounding his home looked lovely in the twilight before true darkness fell—the grass, thick and lush; the worn stones, the engravings, faded by time and weather, oozed history. These neighbors proved quiet given that the occupants had long since crumbled to dust. People rarely came to this part, given that even the relatives of these dead folk were long gone.

The ping on his app indicated an intrusion in the newer section by the entrance to the cemetery. Some people might think it odd that Chris had taken the time to install motion detectors. Those people had never woken to teenagers causing him tons of work. Plus, one day, he was convinced his early-warning system would save him from the undead trying to eat his brain.

Hands shoved into his pockets, Chris adopted a lazy pace in hopes the person daring to visit at this hour would go away before he arrived. Small talk wasn’t exactly something he indulged in. He hated it, actually. Meaningless words. Platitudes. He’d inherited his cynicism from both his mom and her stream of boyfriends. Before he’d even stopped using diapers—a moment that had resulted in a massive celebration by the cult—Chris learned he could only count on himself. Even his mother told him to never trust her. After drinking a few bottles of hooch, his mother would hold him close and tell him to never believe in happy endings.

Happiness was not only fleeting, she claimed, but it could be used against a boy. So, Chris learned at a young age to not bother forming attachments. Besides, who needed happiness when one day the world would belong to him?

Maybe I’ll outlaw happiness. He also had plans to get rid of calories—horrible concept—and ban healthy chips and non-alcoholic beer. Why have beer unless you planned to get buzzed?

As the evening transitioned into night, the shadows grew thicker. All kinds of things could hide in those pockets of gloom. It was why he kept weapons stashed around the place—a knife pushed into the dirt with only the hilt peeping for the west side; a baseball bat above the lintel for a mausoleum in the northern part; and in the eastern section, where the freshest corpses were laid to rest, he kept his pride and joy, his shovel.

Laugh all you want. With its long handle and solid construction, he knew it would be the perfect weapon against zombies when the time came.

But he wouldn’t need a shovel tonight. He could have used a shower, and maybe a Tic-Tac, because kneeling in front of a grave, a grave he had dug himself less than a week ago, was a woman.

From a distance, he couldn’t see her age or her face. It didn’t matter. He ran some fingers through his hair, threw his shoulders back, and boomed, What the hell are you doing here?

2

The hollered query startled Isobel. She’d not expected to encounter anyone at this time of day. She rose from the fresh soil, the disturbance in it recent enough that the grass had yet to take root.

For a moment, she didn’t reply, instead focusing on the man bearing down on her—a young man, tall, and broad of shoulder, his hair dark as a raven’s wing. His eyes…she shouldn’t have been able to see the hue of his eyes in the gloom, and yet, they almost seemed to glow, something in them sparking.

Who is he? A breeze swept past her, a wind with a hint of warmth and the smell of things burnt. How strange.

The man who’d demanded to know what she did slowed his steps until he stood rather close. Too close.

He’s in my space. Isobel wanted to retreat, to move away from the strange energy pulsing from him. And he did pulse. She couldn’t see auras, not like her great-aunt, but she could feel it.

What is he?

Her grandfather might have known, even her mother or sister, who studied the magical arts. Isobel, though, her power was weak in comparison; she preferred to pursue other interests.

As quickly as she sensed it, the strange sensation disappeared. Vanished.

Did I imagine it?

I’m still waiting for an answer, duckie.

She blinked. Duckie? Is that an insult or some sort of crude endearment?

It’s what I call anyone foolish enough to come traipsing into my domain after hours.

Your domain? We’re in a cemetery. Are you the grim reaper watching over the lost souls buried here? Her lips twitched as she teased the man.

Hardly grim. He smiled at her then, a blinding, brilliant smile of a thousand watts that might have dropped the panties of most women. But this girl, raised with morals and a family that strongly insisted that good girls kept their legs shut, did not fall for the masculine charm.

I did not realize the cemetery was closed at night. I am sorry to have disturbed you. She kept her words polite because who knew what might set off this odd man. She didn’t get a sense of danger from him, and yet, at the same time, she prickled with awareness.

Beware.

It’s not safe out here at night, he warned.

How can it not be safe? The dead do not rise. Not without help, and those who could achieve such a thing were rare.

It’s not the dead you should fear. He tried to sound ominous, and yet the twinkle in his eye gave him away.

I just wanted to pay respects to a classmate of mine who died in a car accident. I was unavoidably detained. More like locked in her room because her grandfather claimed the portents were dangerous for the family due to a certain planetary alignment. She’d finally managed to slip out once Mars moved into a more beneficial spot.

Say goodbye to your friend then and go. He crossed his arms and kept watch.

The ardent stare had her fidgeting. Her fingers rose to clasp her pearl necklace, running the smooth beads through her digits. Must you watch me?

Yes, how else am I to make sure you’re not going to vandalize the grave?

Her mouth rounded into an O. Why would I do that?

Perhaps she stole your boyfriend. Or slept with your daddy. Maybe you want a place to express your artistic abilities.

She blinked. Do people seriously come here just to create art? Do I look like I have paint with me? She lifted her arms and twirled, the cardigan over her blouse thinner than the evening warranted and lacking pockets. Her slim-fitting slacks didn’t bulge, and yet he eyed her intently.

Up and down his gaze roved. Maybe I should pat you down to be sure.

When he took a step forward, she took one back and crossed her arms. You will not touch me. Even if the thought made her shiver. I am shivering because it’s cold. Nothing else. "I’m not here to vandalize. And you’ve made it blatantly clear I should come back in the daytime. Sorry to have disturbed you."

I’m not.

Not what?

Sorry you disturbed me. You’re cute. What do you say we go get a drink? His lips once again unleashed his deadly smile.

The conversation veered, and she found herself confused, mostly because the right response involved her telling him to take a hike, and yet, a part of her wanted to say yes.

An even dirtier part of her thought she should have let him frisk her.

No. She shook her head. I came here to pay my respects, not get hit on.

Who said anything about hitting? He lifted his hands. I don’t mind a bit of kink, but I draw the line at smacking. Unless it’s a slap on the ass. Then I’m all in.

The urge to just gape at him proved strong. So strong. Was this man delusional? Pity because he possessed a handsome face and what seemed like a decent body under his bulky jacket. I think I should go. She turned away from him, and he grabbed her arm. She felt it even through her sweater.

Felt heat licking all her nerve endings.

The world around them hushed.

A strange prickling filled the air.

Magic.

She might not have much of it, but she could feel it, especially when someone wielded it. Whirling back, she opened her mouth to ask the man what he thought he was doing, only to see his face creased in puzzlement. I didn’t think it was supposed to storm tonight.

Pulling her arm free of his grip, she addressed him. It’s not a storm. Do you have a weapon handy? she asked as a cool breeze, a wind carrying with it the smell of decay, brushed her face.

Before he could reply, a hand grabbed her ankle, a hand that projected from the freshly dug grave.

What the fuck? he exclaimed, his eyes wide with surprise.

Isobel, on the other hand, didn’t panic.

Whack.

The sword she’d pulled from the ether—a scabbard that existed on another plane of existence—severed the limb, but it didn’t stop the body from boiling free from the earth. It wasn’t the only grave affected.

Isobel could only hope the groundskeeper ran and hid or knew how to fight because all around, the ground trembled as the dead rose in search of life.

3

Chris couldn’t help but stare at the hot chick because he really wanted to know where the fuck she’d pulled a thin rapier from. Her ass? Like, seriously, how did a girl in slim-fitting slacks, a blouse, and a sweater manage to hide four feet of gleaming steel?

And where the hell did she learn to slay zombies with it?

Because, yes, the day he’d predicted had arrived. The dead were fucking rising.

Holy shit!

What the fuck?

Where is my shovel?

He couldn’t let the girl fight them alone. This was the moment he’d waited for.

Chris didn’t have far to go before he was able to wrap his hand around the solid wooden stave of his weapon of choice. Though he did have to dodge the hands thrusting from the dirt on his way. Pulling the shovel free from the soft ground, he hefted it in two hands and looked for an undead target to hit. There, rising from the earth, a man still wearing his suit, his eye sockets gaping empty, the maggots pouring from his mouth. So gross.

Thunk. The momentum of the shovel laid him out flat on the ground, and Chris did a little victory dance. Smote your ass, you dead fucker! As he did his little jig, something grabbed him by the ankles and yanked.

The faceful of dirt tasted, not surprisingly, like dirt.

Ugh. Chris spat it out as he rolled away from the grasping hands. He still held on to his weapon of digging destruction and swung it. Given he lay on the ground, he swung low, which meant he hit some knees. Crack. He sent a woman in heels and torn nylons down to the ground almost face-to-face with him. Her gaping sockets and clacking teeth were utterly gross. The fact that he’d laid her flat didn’t deter the corpse. It pulled itself, fingers digging into the ground, toward the girl with the sword.

As he rose once again to his feet, he couldn’t help but stare at his graveyard visitor—the living one with the hot bod and perfect lips. He found himself somewhat awestruck by the skill with which she wielded her blade. Each movement a graceful ballet with deadly effect. He became so entranced by her fluid motions that a shambling critter managed to plow into him from behind, hard, without lube or a shower first, which totally wasn’t his idea of a hot date night.

Hitting the ground—again—he dropped the shovel and managed to get his hands out to take the brunt of the impact. The body fell on top of him. Chris immediately rolled with the zombie clinging to his back. An elbow to some squishy innards and a backwards thrust of his head caused a rather audible crunch, and he managed to evade the undead bastard looking to ruin his perfectly shaped head with a bite. As it was, the reanimated corpse left a slimy trail of gore on his favorite coat and in his hair. To those wondering, Chris would later discover zombie drool was a bitch to wash out.

Springing to his feet, Chris noticed the girl slashing with grace and Matrix-like elegance at the bodies shuffling toward her.

Her.

Not me.

What the fuck? Chris had waited years for this to happen. Chris was the one with a destiny. With a mandate to rule the world.

Shouldn’t they be coming after me?

He reached down and hefted his shovel. Not that he needed it. No one bothered to attack him. That kind of pissed him off.

A man with more pride than common sense, he yelled, Hey, maggot brains, I’m over here.

Not one of the zombies tilted his way. Even the one on the ground that he’d just fucked with rolled over and began to crawl toward the woman. It became apparent it had only bumped into him because he blocked its path.

It was more than his immense ego could handle.

Dropping the shovel, Chris dove into the fray, fists flying, which sounded really brave until you considered the gross factor. Pounding decaying flesh proved to be nothing like hitting human flesh. It squished. It spurted. It slid off the bone.

It also stank.

But Chris didn’t care. Screw being impressed by the fact that the entire cemetery rose to ruin his attempts to get into the girl’s pants. Fucking undead cock blockers. He found himself even less impressed by the fact that they were more interested in her brain than his.

This should have been his day of glory. Did he mention the fact that he didn’t share well? He never really learned how, given, as a child, his mother always gave him what he wanted. She ripped treats and toys from other children without hesitation if he showed an interest. Halloween easily became his favorite time of year since he was the kid stealing from others.

Ah, the good ol’ days.

But Mommy sat behind bars, and thus couldn’t steal for him the glory of the win. A petty man might have stood aside and let the girl deal with the problem; however, Chris still had some hope of getting lucky, so he swallowed his pride—in the hopes she’d swallow later—and helped her smite the many undead.

Lucky for them, the cemetery didn’t have too many bodies to fight, mostly because many chose cremation—and even some who didn’t, got burned to a crisp by management. There was only so much room to bury folks, and in the case of those who died without heirs and family, sometimes those graves got reassigned. Hence, more than a few headstones marked empty spots. It meant they had a reasonable amount of the undead to fight instead of a true cemetery full.

Not to say there wasn’t a fair number. There was—including Marty the cop.

"Told you so, Marty," Chris shouted gleefully before he whacked the cop in the face with a shovel.

But between the woman and him, they dispatched the zombies until only twitching limbs littered the ground, and a single eyeball blinked at Chris.

Squish.

The lady, whose name he had yet to discover—although he was perfectly fine calling her hottie when she got to her knees—whirled, her eyes alight with adrenaline. It didn’t take a genius to recognize that she enjoyed the rush.

So did I.

It made him horny. So, being a man, he smiled at her, slicked back his gory hair, and said, My shower is big enough for two.

Her nose wrinkled. We fight the undead, and you’re trying to get me naked?

Actually, if you’ll recall, I was trying to get you naked before they arrived.

She wiped her blade on a section of untouched grass. Do you always pick up women who visit the cemetery?

Yes. It was that or go to a bar where they expected a guy to spend his hard-earned dollars to buy them a drink.

That’s disgusting. She fixed him with eyes that were a strange mix of brown yet hinting at blue.

Would it help if I said I only go after the pretty ones? He also avoided those that were crying. He had a thing about snot. Couldn’t stand a woman with a runny nose. All drippy and gooey and slimy. Talk about an immediate turn-off.

You’re a jerk.

Actually, I’m—

Not interested. She turned away from him and began to walk away. It was then that he noticed her sword was gone again. Gone where? Where the fuck did she hide it? He’d taken her ass off the list since she walked perfectly straight. Hollow leg, perhaps?

Despite the indignity of it, he followed her. Hey, where are you going?

Home.

Don’t you think we should talk first?

She cast a glance over her shoulder. Do you actually plan to talk about the zombies and how strange it is that they decided to not only rise but attack en masse?

Not so strange given he’d predicted it. Actually, I was thinking we should talk about the fact that I’m here, and you’re here, both alive despite the forces of the undead trying to kill us.

So we survived. What of it?

Don’t you feel a need to celebrate? Naked. He didn’t mention his bed because, hey, nothing wrong with using a soft patch of grass.

Once again, she managed to rebuff his charm.

Me, striking out. Totally unheard of.

She turned around and began to walk again.

Hey, wait a second. Aren’t you going to help me clean up? The scattered body parts and gore covered a wide swath. No way would management or the cops not notice. Especially if mourners showed up and complained.

Clean? Nope. She shook her head. You’re the graveyard keeper. Earn your salary.

She expected him to work.

For free.

Gasp. How rude, especially since he wouldn’t get overtime for this.

You helped make this mess, he shouted.

Deal with it, she said, and kept walking. Walked right out of the cemetery and got into the car parked by the entrance. A little two-door car with an electric engine.

At that, he stopped chasing and finally began to count his blessings she’d rejected him. Anyone who actually drove one of those little death traps for the good of the planet wasn’t someone he should associate with.

Ever.

I wouldn’t want her do-good nature to rub off on me. He had to remain completely evil if he planned to conquer the world.

Still, though, as her little car put-putted out of sight, he couldn’t help a pang of regret that he didn’t have her suck him off first.

A solo hand job in the shower with soap just didn’t have the same appeal.

4

Isobel refused to feel guilty about leaving that man to clean up the remains of the zombie attack. He’d earned it with his ribald remarks.

Really, suggesting they shower together. Who did that?

He did. But the real reason she took off? She could totally picture it, and it warmed parts of her that weren’t allowed to tingle. Good daughters chose to remain chaste and didn’t feel things between their legs.

Sneaking into her house while wearing zombie guts proved impossible. She’d no sooner entered the kitchen from the garage when her mother’s teacup Yorkie—whom Isobel was convinced housed the spirit of a demon—came running into the kitchen completely losing her furry little mind, which Isobel was pretty sure took up less space than a pea.

The damned thing hated her. It hated everyone, actually, except for Mother. And, even then, the dog treated her with disdain.

Queenie yipped and yapped as Isobel put a finger to her lips and shushed. Stop it. Shut up. You’ll get me caught.

I don’t need the dog to tell me you’re in trouble. Her mother’s imperial tone preceded her entrance. A woman in her late fifties, Mother could have passed for much younger—probably since she knew what spells and potions to use to keep her skin looking fresh and wrinkle free. Her hair, still a jet-black that she claimed didn’t come from a bottle or enchantment, was pulled tautly to the back of her head in an elegant chignon, unlike Isobel’s more messy look—messier now since her fight.

Mother. Despite the casual attire and the slime coating her, Isobel dipped into a small curtsy. She’d be in worse trouble if she didn’t. Being descended from royalty, even exiled Russian royalty, meant her mother expected certain mannerisms in private. In public, her mother had to pretend she wasn’t a highbrow snob. It drove her nuts.

Where have you been, young lady? I thought you were in your room studying.

I was. But then I thought I’d go for a drive.

A perfectly manicured brow arched. And while you were driving, did you decide to visit a mortuary and roll amongst some body parts?

Isobel tilted her chin. Actually, I visited a cemetery to pay my respects to a classmate who died in an accident. Except she didn’t exactly stay dead. She still remained unsure what had caused her friend and all those other bodies to rise from the ground. Usually, that required a necromancer, and yet, she’d only noticed the gravedigger. Perhaps the man she’d met had something to do with it?

Doubtful given he’d not performed any of the rituals needed to call forth the undead. On the contrary, he looked rather annoyed when the zombies began to rise from the graves and interrupted his rather uncouth attempt to seduce her.

I trust that you put your classmate back in her place and killed the one who sent her to attack, her mother said.

I took care of her and the others.

Others? You mean there was more than one? At that, her mother’s perfectly smooth brow creased. How many?

Isobel shrugged. A lot. If I were to guess, it looked like all of the ones capable of rising came after me.

You? Her mother laughed. Don’t be silly, child. The dead aren’t trained pets that attack on command. They’ll go after anything with a pulse.

I know that’s how they’re supposed to act, except they didn’t. They ignored the guy who was there and came after me.

What guy? You didn’t mention a man present. Were you sneaking out to meet a boy? The pitch in her mother’s voice reached an appalled height.

I did not go there to meet him. He just happened to be there. He’s the groundskeeper, and he came to ask me what I was doing since I visited after hours.

Did you take care of him? Do I need to call a cleanup crew?

Welcome to Isobel’s world, where anyone who might have seen something they shouldn’t got taken care of. No, I did not take care of him. And neither will you. He helped me fight off the zombies. Not very well, given he wielded a shovel with more enthusiasm than finesse, but at least he’d tried.

The frown grew deeper. You know how your grandfather feels about witnesses.

It’s a new era, Mother. We can’t just dispose of anyone we don’t like.

I don’t see why not. The dead don’t speak.

Yeah, but forensics does. We can’t just kill people willy-nilly anymore, Mother. You know that.

Stupid modern society with their cameras and science. Her mother’s lips puckered. Is this your way of saying you let the necromancer escape also?

You are assuming a necromancer was involved.

The dead don’t rise on their own.

True. And yet, other than that cold flash of magic just before it happened, Isobel had not seen or heard anyone else. Had they shared the graveyard with another person? Had someone been spying on them and decided to play a nasty trick?

The disapproval on Mother’s face shone with cold clarity. "So let me see if I understand. The dead came alive, and someone saw it…and you. You didn’t kill the witness. You let the necromancer who dared attack one of our family escape, and you brought the mess home. Absolutely revolting. I thought we taught you better. Outside with you. Her mother pointed to the door that led to their yard. You can hose off in the stables, but don’t do it near the horses. I don’t need you making them ill."

A roll of her eyes accompanied her Yes, Mother. Isobel loved the woman dearly, but at times like these, a little more motherly concern would be nice. Especially since the hose by the barn was fed by a spring on the property. A cold spring.

Out she stomped to the yard, feeling a little perverse pleasure when her feet left hunks of goo. It reminded her that her car would need a good cleaning, as well. She’d have to remember to leave a note to the maintenance staff for their fleet of cars because she’d certainly not stoop to cleaning it herself. Mother would have a conniption if one of her precious daughters took on the task. We pay those people for a reason.

Imagine if Mother had heard the gravedigger asking Isobel to help rebury the bodies. The reply would probably have been something haughty along the lines of menial labor applies to those not born with a golden spoon in their mouth.

While Mother had distinct ideas on the separation of the classes, that didn’t extend to punishment. Take Isobel’s upcoming cold shower for instance. Isobel grimaced at the coiled hose on the side of the barn. She dreaded what would come next. But, given Mother probably watched, she couldn’t avoid it.

The icy jet of liquid had her teeth chattering in seconds, so hard Isobel didn’t hear the approach of her sister, who uttered a dry, Is there something wrong with your shower? Or are we suddenly eschewing indoor plumbing to make a point?

Isobel turned, aiming the frigid stream at her sister. It hit an invisible shield and spattered to the ground. M-mother didn’t w-want the z-z-zombie guts getting on the carpets.

You fought a zombie? Her sister, looking tall and regal with dark, flashing eyes, smirked. Since when does little Miss Perfect get dirty?

Don’t c-call me that.

Or w-w-hat? her sister taunted.

You’re such a bitch.

Yes, I am. Eva preened. Jealous?

Very. She’d always envied her sister’s ability to do what she wanted and screw the consequences. Evangeline, from an early age, flouted authority, but then again, she had the power to do so. Isobel wished she could wield magic with the same ease, such as now when, with a snap of her fingers, Eva warmed the water.

A sigh escaped Isobel as she aimed the heated liquid at her face and hair. Thank you.

I didn’t do it for you. Evangeline waggled her fingers in the direction of the house.

What a surprise, Eva did it to piss off Mother. Isobel didn’t care. It beat her teeth chattering and her body pimpling.

Turning back to her, Eva asked, So, where did you find the corpse? Was Great-Aunt Verona restless again? Every ten years or so, their great-aunt tried to rise. A powerful enchantress when alive, she refused to stay dead.

Usually, Grandfather would have welcomed her—family was everything—but given that Aunt Verona had maggots infesting what remained of her brain, she’d gone quite insane. So, for the sake of the world, they kept burying her. Cremation was vetoed because no one wanted to send their aunt to Hell. Lucifer would probably send her back.

Swishing water in her mouth, Isobel spat it out before swallowing a mouthful. No, it wasn’t Auntie. I was visiting a cemetery and came under attack by zombies.

Zombies, as in more than one?

Squinting at her sister through wet hair, Isobel nodded.

Did you kill the necromancer involved?

No, are you okay? or do you want a hug? Her family went straight to the point. No, I didn’t. I never even saw anyone. Other than that crude man, and she didn’t feel like explaining him to her sister.

Odd. I hadn’t heard of any necromancers on the continent. Not to mention, I’m surprised Grandfather would allow one on our territory.

Maybe he doesn’t know.

At that, they both snickered. Grandfather always knew. Whether he’d tell anyone or not was more the question.

We’ll have to keep an eye open, I guess. We can’t have someone challenging us in our own city.

What Eva meant was that she wouldn’t have her reputation as Wickedest Witch impugned upon. Her sister didn’t like to share the glory, even if that fame came from doing evil deeds.

Rinsing gore from her ears, Isobel almost missed Eva’s next words.

Grandfather is bugging me again about doing my duty to the family and marrying. My time is almost up. By time, it meant Eva was fast approaching the age when all the women in their family were expected to settle down and produce heirs.

Shaking the water from her ears, Isobel squinted through wet lashes. You’re going to have to tell him at some point that you’re not going through with it.

A grimace pulled her sister’s features. I’d rather not. You know how stuck he is in the past. Back in the day… her sister said in a deep voice.

Isobel giggled. When he used to walk twenty miles to school, in the snow, and ate frozen potatoes for dinner because they couldn’t have a fire.

A snort escaped Eva. Seriously, he keeps going on and on about how things used to be done. Doesn’t he realize we’re now in the twenty-first century?

Nope.

Eva sighed. And forget talking to him about women’s rights. He’s still peeved about the whole pants thing.

Grandfather believed women should wear skirts to their ankles, and that chastity was their greatest treasure.

Has he heard from your supposed fiancé? Isobel asked.

Not that I know of. Eva’s brows drew together. I don’t know if I should be relieved he’s just as keen to forget about the contract or insulted that he’s shunning me. Not that it matters. Once they all find out I’m not a virgin…

The entire family would flip. Poor Evangeline, promised as a bride to someone of great power. No one knew who the man was, just that the betrothal had existed even before Eva’s birth.

Their grandfather had arranged it, and he wouldn’t tell them who the man was. Claimed if people knew of it, their family would be in grave danger.

However, with Eva getting older, and a certain planetary alignment occurring shortly, a wedding would soon happen. A wedding between the chaste eldest daughter of the family, and a male whose name they’d yet to discern. Grandfather did so love his secrets.

He also probably worried Evangeline would either set a curse on the man or kill him. Eva never did like people making decisions for her.

Perhaps we worry for nothing. The pact was made so long ago. Surely you can’t be expected to abide by it? Isobel did her best to reassure.

Eva shook her head. You would think, and yet, Grandfather won’t let it go.

No, he probably wouldn’t. In his mind, marriages should be arranged by an elder for the good of the family. Happiness or what his granddaughters wanted didn’t even enter the equation.

Isobel hated seeing her sister worried. Eva had always been the strong one. The one most determined and defiant. If Eva didn’t think she could escape a patriarchal decree, then what chance did Isobel have?

I want to marry for love. But that didn’t seem likely.

For either of them.

Since low spirits never did anyone any good, and at times sent Eva on a murderous rampage, Isobel decided the best course of action was to cheer up her sister. She turned the hose on her older sibling and yelled, Water fight!

Having caught her sister off guard with a wet splash, Eva’s anger was instantaneous and retaliatory. But, under the cussing—You spoiled brat!—and the violent tosses of water balls at Isobel’s head, there rang an undercurrent of laughter and love. Eva might be the wicked eldest daughter, but she doted on her little sister.

Isobel wished there was something she could do to help Eva, but she drew the line at taking her sister’s place in the marriage contract. There had to be a better solution.

5

So the zombie uprising turned out to be a heck of a lot more annoying than expected. A lot of work, too.

Chris didn’t manage a hot shower until the wee hours of the morning. It took that long for him to re-bury all the bodies—and no, he didn’t give a shit if he put the right parts back in the correct graves, he just wanted to be done—and fix the torn ground. Good thing he could blame a lot of the mud on the spring weather.

The rain shower that had lasted a few hours as he dug—and cursed—helped, too.

When a sweep of the cemetery after he was done showed he’d missed a few chunks—like the hand still trying to crawl away—he cheated a little bit and tossed those pieces into the huge pond located in the northeast corner. Something lived in its scummy, green depths. He couldn’t have said what, but it did a good job of cleaning up messes and not leaving evidence behind.

As he’d worked, shirtless and with no one to admire him, Chris reflected on the hot chick that managed to fight off his incredible allure.

He couldn’t understand it. Even women who liked women fell for him—after a few drinks. If he said, drop your panties, they couldn’t get them around their ankles quickly enough.

If he wanted a harem for an all-night orgy, a snap of his fingers—and a round of tequila, with a promise of something illegal to smoke—would bring them running. When it came to sex, they didn’t care about his job, or if he would call them the next day. They all wanted a spin on his mighty dick.

Except for her. The duckie with no name—and a sword. How hot was it to see a chick wielding four feet of steel? It made a man wonder how well she would wield a certain proud staff.

I wonder if she’d use two hands on me. Thinking about her brought a groan and an erection.

But that erection soon shriveled as he recalled how she’d left him.

Alone.

To do his job.

The lazy part of him—that comprised probably around eighty-five percent—told him to leave the mess and go for a beer. However, a teeny-tiny bit of gray matter between his ears said he’d get in way too much trouble because hadn’t the past proven that no one believed him?

He could just imagine it.

Cop: Why did you dig up all those bodies and chop them to pieces?

Chris: I didn’t. They came to life and tried to kill me. (Not her, because like hell was he making her the hero of that story.)

Cop: The dead don’t rise.

Chris: I swear, they did.

Clank. The sound of the door as they shut it, locking him in a padded room where heavy drugs would keep him seeing butterflies until budget cuts forced management to release him.

Not exactly the brightest prospect. Although, on second thought, he missed those drugs.

However, pleasant as that euphoria proved, he couldn’t allow himself to be sequestered. Not now. Not when shit was finally beginning to happen.

The dead had fucking risen from their graves. Surely it