Slay Me Down to Sleep: Undeadly Deeds, #2

By Logan Riley

It's been three months since I thwarted a plan to ruin Homecoming and narrowly avoided getting killed. Really, I should be taking it easy, just spending time with my incredibly yummy boyfriend Ethan.

 

But between all the pom squad vs cheerleading drama at school, and the weird, life-like Undead popping up all around, I can't shake the feeling that this is just the calm before another apocalyptic storm.

 

Then, when a fellow zombie settler betrays me, and I get accused of a crime I didn't commit, it's a race against time to prove my innocence.

 

As the deadly secrets that my parents have been keeping suddenly come to light, the truth behind my powers turns my world upside down.

 

Soon, I'm struggling to mend a shattered heart while resisting the urge to fight darkness with darkness.

 

Black magic. Actual killer cheerleaders after me. More evil from my past coming back to haunt me. Not to mention, the boy I pushed away.

 

All that while having to face my biggest life change of all.

 

…Transitioning from zombie settler to zombie slayer.

 

Previously published as Undead Much? by Razorbill / Penguin Books (c) 2010. This 2022 edition has extensive revisions, updates, storyline changes, and new added content throughout.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Logan Riley
• Release date: Sep 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215256503

Book preview

one

Okay, this is it. The BIG moment.

After three months of training so hard we’ve barely had the energy to shower before we fall into bed—let alone ravage each other the way two teenagers in love should totally be ravaging each other—Ethan and I are alone on Sunday night, the last night of winter break.

I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks, Ethan mumbles against my lips, leaning into me until my back touches the inside of the car door.

I’m so glad training is over until spring break. A part of me actually wishes Junior Enforcer training was over forever, but I can’t tell him that.

Ethan loves having the chance to learn from what are basically the secret-service officers of the zombie Settling world. He wants to join their ranks when he turns twenty, and the experience he’s gaining will prove invaluable when it comes time to put in his application.

Besides, he doesn’t seem to care that the only reason the Enforcers are hanging around Carol, Arkansas is because of his freakishly powerful girlfriend, so the least I can do is keep my mouth shut about how grueling I’ve found the past few months. A lot of boyfriends would not be cool with a girl being so much better at something than they are.

And I am better, way better. I’m probably the most powerful sixteen-year-old zombie Settler in the history of the U.S.

On the days when that helps me put to rest a kid who has crawled out of his grave with major issues or kick black magically raised zombie butt, I really appreciate the gift. The rest of the time…I kind of wish I was normal.

Or, at least, a normal Settler of the dead. Maybe then my entire body wouldn’t hurt at the end of the day after an hour of pom squad practice and three hours of training with Kitty and her team of Enforcer tough guys.

And maybe Ethan and I wouldn’t have had to wait months for the chance to be alone together for more than half an hour.

This scarf has to go, he says, tugging the fluffy white fabric from my neck and throwing it to the floorboards. But I love this Frisbee hat. Did I tell you how much I love this hat?

A few thousand times. It’s called a beret. I laugh, then sigh as he trails little kisses down my neck.

Neck kisses. Who knew they would be so fabulous?

Now, he murmurs, if you could say something in French while wearing that hat and doing that…thing you do…

I press my mouth to his neck, dragging my teeth over his skin just the tiniest bit as I pull away.

Yeah, that thing. The way his voice trembles makes me feel powerful and nervous at the same time.

But it’s a good nervous. Everything Ethan makes me feel is good.

Good, good, good, good.

So good, I can’t believe he’s really my boyfriend, that I’m the one he calls every night to say, I love you, before he turns out the light.

Still, the whole talk French to me, baby stuff is pure guy weirdness.

I think you’ve got issues with the French thing.

Oh yeah? He chuckles.

Yeah. You might need therapy.

Kiss therapy. He wiggles his eyebrows, but even that level of goofiness can’t detract from his yum factor. He cut his dirty blond hair about a month ago. Now, it doesn’t hang down in his face the way it did when we first met, but he is still Greek god gorgeous. And now I can see his amazing green eyes even better than before.

I stare into those eyes, grinning like a fool as I put a stop to the eyebrow wiggling with my fingertips. You are such a dork.

That’s why we’re a perfect match.

My eyes widen. Are you calling me a dork?

Total dork. A really hot dork, but—

I laugh. Oh well, that makes it all better. I wrap my arms around his neck, giggling as he tugs me through the narrow opening between the front seats and into the back of his Mini Cooper.

It is freakishly small back here, even with the seats folded down, and neither of us is particularly short, but I couldn’t care less. I hardly notice that my legs are folded into a pretzel when Ethan pulls me on top of him.

Fish and Chips, he feels good.

So solid and warm and the kisses…

Dude, the kisses.

This is what kisses are supposed to feel like. Like your lips are on fire—in the good way, not the I just ate three jalapeño peppers on a dare way—and the fire is spreading to every inch of your body. Even if we hadn’t left the car running and the heat on, I wouldn’t notice the cold. I’m incapable of noticing anything but him, and his lips, and his hands.

I love his hands, those hands . . .

That are even now . . .

Slowly moving up the back of my sweater . . .

And sort of sliding beneath my bra strap.

Oh. Crap.

Is this it? Are we going there? Am I ready to go there?

I mean, heck yes, nothing feels as good as kissing Ethan, so I’m sure doing other things with Ethan is going to be pretty fab too. And I did turn sixteen over two months ago, so I’m probably overdue for some groping, but—

Gah! Groping?

There has to be a better word, something a little romantic or sexy or something.

You feel amazing, he says before his tongue slips past my lips.

Mmmm. I moan my agreement. Not agreeing that I taste amazing, of course, but that he does. He tastes like coffee and caramel from the Starbucks we snagged on the way out to his grandfather’s farm and just Ethan. Yummy, perfect, wonderful, hot, nineteen-year-old in-college Ethan, who is no doubt tired of taking it slow with his nearly three-and-a-half-years-younger girlfriend.

Yep. He is definitely tired of taking it slow.

He eases apart the hooks on my lavender demi-cup bra with a practiced, little flip of his fingers, making my heart race for reasons that have nothing to do with hormones.

Geez! Couldn’t he struggle with the thing for a few seconds? Just to offer a little comfort of the don’t worry, I’m not waaayyyy more experienced than you are variety?

No, he had to unhook my hooks from their little circle things with an ease that leaves no doubt he’s done this many, many times before. Or, at least, many more times than I have.

Which is none.

Zero.

Blargh, what should I do?

On one hand I’m really feeling the full-body tingle of being with Ethan. But on the other hand, I’m freaking out. I mean, we haven’t been able to go on a real date in weeks, not since we exchanged Christmas presents at his mom’s house and then went to a midnight showing of It’s a Wonderful Life at the community center.

And then I had to be home right after, so there was only time for a little kissing.

Shouldn’t there be some sort of learning curve, a way to ease into this? I’m an easing in kind of person. I don’t jump into the deep end—I slowly wade in from the shallow part of the pool, giving myself time to adjust.

Where is the time to adjust?!

Ethan pauses. Megan, I—

Suddenly, there is a knock at the window.

I scream, a piercing, girly scream that makes Ethan wince, but I can’t help it. Give me creepy flesh-hungry Reanimated Corpses and I can get my Buffy on with the best of them. But interrupt me whilst making out and I am far more the hysterical-screaming-and-clutching-at-my-clothes, desperately-trying-to-rehook-my-bra-through-my-sweater type of girl.

two

Um, sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out in there. The voice outside is male, but it doesn’t sound like anyone I know.

He is definitely a young guy, however, which means we’ve escaped being discovered by Ethan’s seventy-year-old grandfather. Thank. Glob. I really don’t want to look Pop-pop in the eye while my bra is still unhooked.

Not that a complete stranger is a much better option.

But, um…I’m here, the dude outside says. Are you coming out?

Who the hell are you? Ethan demands.

Excellent question. Who is this guy and why is he way out here at the edge of town, lurking in some old man’s back pasture at nine o’clock on a Sunday night? Even the cows are shacked up somewhere warm right now.

Megan? The guy’s voice rises slightly as he says my name. That is Megan Berry in there, right?

You know this guy? Ethan grabs the flashlight he leaves rolling around on the floor in his backseat, brandishing it like a weapon as he turns toward the window.

I don’t think so. My breath huffs out in relief as I finally manage to get my bra back in position. Call me crazy, but I feel a thousand times more prepared to deal now that the girls are properly strapped in. Even a possible stalker doesn’t seem as scary when securely under-garmented.

Did I ever tell you I thought you were a stalker when we first re-met? I ask Ethan as we finish untangling our legs. Or maybe a serial killer?

Did I ever tell you that you start weird conversations at inappropriate times? he asks, looking frustrated. Or angry. Or something.

Geez, you would think I’d invited Strange Dude to come pester us while we were making out.

Stay here, I’m going to check on your friend. He pops open the back window and slides out into the night before I can protest that dude is not my friend.

Not that it would matter. This isn’t the first time I’ve caught a glimpse of Ethan’s jealous streak though I have to confess it usually thrills me to see him get all scowly when one of the other Settler boys checks me out during Enforcer drills.

I mean, Ethan is the hottest boy living—as far as I’m concerned—and knowing he feels the same way about me is unbelievable. I’m no dog, but neither am I model material. I’m of average height, with average long frizzy brown hair that must be tamed with a scalding hot flat iron to achieve any level of smoothness, and decent brown eyes with a hint of gold around the center. I’m a little too thin, especially after all the training and dancing the past few months, and my figure is nothing to write home about. I mean, I have enough chest to keep strapless clothes in place, but the girls need creative padding to form any luscious lumps beneath my sweater.

Which Ethan would have figured out in a few minutes if we hadn’t been interrupted.

No matter how weird it is for this guy to be creeping around in Ethan’s grandpa’s field, I can’t help feeling grateful that he spared me from having to make a call on whether Ethan and I were heading to second base tonight.

Megan? Did you hear me? Ethan sticks his head through the rear window. You should come out and see this. He sounds more surprised than angry, which should have let me know right away there was some Settler weirdness going down.

Isn’t there always? I mean, can we ever spend a night together without dead people being in some way involved?

No, of course we can’t, because that is not my zombie-plagued destiny.

Still, I am legitimately surprised to see a dead guy standing next to Ethan, stomping his sneakered feet in the remains of last night’s snow, looking amazingly lifelike for a zombie. His shoulder-length hair—brown or black, I can’t quite tell in the moonlight—is clean and soft looking and his expression excited and friendly. In fact, if I couldn’t smell the funky grave odor clinging to his jeans and oversized striped sweater, I wouldn’t think he was deceased at all.

Hey! Megan, good to meet you. The guy smiles, revealing dazzling rows of super straight teeth as he reaches out to capture my hand and give it a firm shake. Sweater boy is very cute in a saggy-pants stoner kind of way and must have been even cuter when he was alive. Sorry to bother you, but that’s some serious mojo you’ve got going on. I caught your energy the second I climbed out of the crypt. I’m Cliff.

I lift a brow. Cliff?

Clifford Joseph Frankincense Harvester, reporting for duty.

Duty? I repeat with a shake of my head, confused. When he releases my hand, I’m careful not to wipe it on my clothes. I don’t want to hurt this weird zombie’s feelings and it’s better to keep the grave dirt smell confined to my hand. The smell of fresh grave doesn’t come out of clothes without some major effort.

I would have found a way to dodge the hand entirely, in fact, if I’d ever had a zombie chat me up the way Cliff is doing. Usually, the naturally Unsettled are kind of out of it until a Settler gives the cue to start blabbing. Even then, the majority of people who are troubled enough by unfinished business from their living days to crawl out of their graves and seek intervention aren’t in the mood for idle conversation.

They come, they groan and shuffle, I ask them what’s up, and they confess their issues. Then I promise to take care of whatever’s bugging them and send them back to their eternal slumber. End of story, all nice and tidy and relatively easy—except for the grave-sealing process. Now that I’m a second-stage Settler, I have to follow my zombies back to their place of rest and seal them in with a special ceremony so no one can resurrect them with black magic.

After having been nearly killed by Reanimated Corpses—RCs, as Ethan likes to call them—back in September, I take grave sealing very seriously. Honestly, I take just about everything very seriously. Learning that your best friend was secretly plotting to kill you for years does that to a girl. My former BFF, Jess, is now in a Settler Affairs prison in Little Rock awaiting trial and sentencing, but that doesn’t help me feel any safer.

If I was stupid enough to be best friends with a witch who wanted to watch black magically raised zombies munch my flesh, my ability to spot possible sources of danger isn’t something I can take for granted.

Yeah, I figured it was a nice night, Cliff says with a shrug, and I’ve never walked through a fresh snow before. You up for a walk?

You came to find me because you’d never taken a walk in the snow? Never in my entire life—either in my five years of Settling the dead when I was a kid or in the past four months since my powers have returned—have I ever had a request like this.

Usually, people have real issues. They want to tell someone that they were fighting with before they died that they love them, or they have unfinished business that affects the living and makes them feel guilty in death. Sometimes, they even need to get the name of their killer off of their chests and into the hands of the proper authorities.

I’ve had more than my share of murdered teens in the past few months. Unfortunately, something about my extraordinarily strong Settler power draws traumatized zombies to me like flies to a steaming fresh pile of cow poo.

Speaking of cow poo, we are bound to run into some if Cliff really wants to stroll. Looks like my new suede boots and my romantic date with Ethan are both shot.

Um, yeah. Fresh snow’s not something you want to miss out on. So I figured I might as well crawl out of the old grave and go for a stroll. You game? Cliff asks, before turning to Ethan with a sheepish grin. If that’s cool with you? I’m assuming you’re the boyfriend.

No, sure. I mean, yeah, I am. But that’s fine, Ethan stammers, clearly thrown by Cliff as well. I’ll wait in the car—you two go ahead.

Okay. Great. I smile at Cliff as I grab Ethan’s hand. Just let me grab my coat.

No problem. Sorry, I forgot that living people get cold. Cliff laughs as I pull Ethan back toward the car, a strangely infectious sound that sort of makes me want to laugh too.

Good thing I don’t, however, because Ethan doesn’t look amused.

I haven’t been dead that long, Cliff continues. But I remember freezing my balls off at a football game last November. Who decided November was a good time for football? I mean, playing it, sure, since you’re bound to get hot. But watching it? Mostly lame.

This guy talks more than you do, Ethan mumbles as he opens the door and grabs my bright red pea coat.

Thanks, I say wryly as I shrug my coat on and reach past Ethan for my scarf.

I get it that he’s annoyed, but there’s no need to take it out on me. I can’t help the weirdness of my job any more than he can. So, I draw a larger number of Unsettled than the average girl, and I haven’t dared to ask another Settler to cover for me because I want to save up my favors for nights when the pom squad is performing at the basketball games. So what?

It isn’t my fault I’m still in high school or that balancing stage-two responsibilities is a lot harder than stage-three—the level Ethan has been at since his nineteenth birthday. He only has to be on duty a couple nights a week and the rest of the time he can shut off his power and not worry about drawing the Undead.

I, however, am not granted such luxuries, even though I know I could figure out how to turn my power off if I tried. I am abnormally advanced, after all.

Unfortunately, I also landed myself in an abnormally large amount of trouble a few months back while trying to get ahead, so now I’m trying to walk the straight and narrow. Seems like my boyfriend, who works as a Protocol officer and is basically a Settler cop, should be a little more supportive of that!

I was just kidding. He rubs my back as I wrap my scarf around my neck. You know I love your rambles.

He kisses me on the cheek and I melt. I can’t stay mad at him; it’s like trying to stay mad at a puppy. A really sexy, sweet, adorable puppy. Why don’t you come with us, I ask. I’m sure Cliff won’t mind. He seems friendly.

Too friendly, Ethan whispers. I’m not sure he’s giving you the real four-one-one on why he left his grave. Maybe he’s holding back until you two are alone.

I glance over at my zombie, who is rocking back and forth on his heels with his head tilted back, pretending great interest in the stars. Or maybe he’s just…different?

Ethan grunts. Oh, he’s different all right, but not that different. He knows your name, Meg, and didn’t you say the only Unsettled who know who you are right off the bat are—

The ones who died. Badly. I cut him off before he can mention murder.

In the past few months, I’ve had a couple of kids who were murdered by a black magic practitioner. Unfortunately, they weren’t able to describe the practitioner very well, probably due to the trauma of being murdered and all that. But they’re the ones who knew who I was before I made the usual introductions. And no one, not even the most experienced Elders over at Settler Affairs headquarters, has any idea how a bunch of murdered kids happen to have learned my name.

It’s a mystery, like so many other things about me.

Like why I have this incredible power and whether or not I’ll be able to control it sufficiently to lead a relatively average life. Or why I still feel like I’m living on borrowed time even though the people raising killer zombies have been locked away. No matter how normal I act in front of Ethan and my parents, I’m still not my old self and I’m beginning to think I never will be.

With those cheery thoughts in mind, I turn back to Cliff. Okay, let’s get strolling. Might as well get him taken care of and back in his grave, and then maybe Ethan and I will have a few minutes to talk before my ten-o’clock-on-school-nights curfew.

Call me if you need me, Ethan shouts as Cliff and I set off across the pasture.

You won’t need him. I’m harmless, I promise, Cliff says in a friendly whisper. I’m not like the others.

I huddle deeper into my coat as a weird shiver races down my spine. The others? What others?

You know, the others. The…um… His smile fades and for a moment he looks as confused as I feel, but then his grin returns. You know what? I can’t remember. Let’s just forget it and enjoy the walk. Cool?

Cool, I say. But it isn’t.

Nothing about the way this night is ending is cool.

But then, what else is new?

three

Wow, Megan, looks like winter break really didn’t agree with you.

I turn toward the evil voice with a grin, determined not to let the Monicster get to me. Thanks, Monica. Nice to see you, too. It’s only our first afternoon back at pom practice. I can’t let her nasty wear me down until February at the very earliest.

Really, you could pack luggage in those bags. Monica Parsons wiggles into the girls’ locker room like it’s filled with guys ready to ogle her scrawny size-two body instead of a bunch of girls changing into workout clothes for after-school basketball, cheer, and pom squad practice. How is it possible to look so rough after a three-week vacation?

As if she doesn’t know. She’s been training right next to Ethan and me every day down at the Settler Affairs compound. Monica is as obsessed as Ethan is about becoming an Enforcer candidate, going so far as to assume she’ll be the first Settler to be accepted right out of high school.

She is delusional, of course, but so far, I have resisted the urge to tell her so. We forged an uneasy truce after helping contain a bunch of black magically raised zombies last fall, and I am doing my best to keep the peace. She is captain of the pom squad, after all, and we are both bound to keep our identity as Settlers of the dead top secret from the human world.

Still, that doesn’t mean I have to put up with her crap.

I don’t know, Monica, how is it possible to look like you’re trying too hard in jeans and a sweatshirt? I ask, my tone sweet as honey.

Shocked gasps erupt from London and Alana, the Monicster’s partners in crime. Well, the ones left over after her ex-BFF, Beth, was locked away in Settler prison for working some seriously creepy voodoo…

You can never try too hard, Sweetie. Monica tosses her long, silky, nearly black hair over her shoulder, clearly taking my insult as a compliment. What’s baffling is how you manage to make a perfectly cute miniskirt look so fugly.

It’s the cable tights. Alana smacks her gum. They’re totally short bus.

Short bus means retarded, idiot, Monica said, turning on Alana with a critical glare.

Right, those tights are retarded. Right?

It’s wrong to make fun of retarded people, Alana. London twists her long, auburn hair into a knot on the top of her head. It’s not like they can help it. And you’re supposed to say mentally-challenged or something anyway.

Exactly. What’s up with you today? Monica shakes her head sadly, obviously disappointed with the insult quality of her third-in-command.

I assume that I’ve been forgotten now that she’s found someone else to pick on and make quick work of my tights and fugly skirt, wiggling into my black spandex dance pants, hoping I can get changed before I attract any more attention.

And what’s up with that bruise, Megan? Has Ethan been roughing you up? Monica asks, honing in on the giant black mark on my thigh. That’s going to show if we wear the black uniforms on Saturday night.

I’ll cover it up with base, I say, ignoring her questions.

For some reason, I can’t think of a reasonable lie. All I can think about is the way Cliff freaked out last night when I fell. We were barely ten feet from the car when I tripped on a frozen cow patty—aka a large lump of bovine poo—and bit it, big time. Just average klutzy Megan stuff, but Cliff had acted like the world was going to end if something bad happened to me.

It sort of creeped me out. Especially considering he never did cop to any unfinished business aside from a burning desire to traipse around in a winter wonderland.

Despite his sweetness, I was glad to get Cliff back in his crypt, all tucked in for a nice, long rest after his first—and final—walk in the snow.

Makeup would rub off on the spandex. Monica sighs. We’re just going to have to wear the white and gold. Write that down for me, Alana.

Alana jumps to do her evil mistress’s bidding while the rest of us finish changing. Or try to finish changing. It isn’t easy, what with the twelve cheerleaders standing in a knot by the sinks, whispering and staring.

What is up with everyone today? You would think three weeks off would make people less cranky.

Apparently not.

But then, the cheerleaders and the pom squad have been enemies ever since the inception of the much more awesome dance team—aka pom squad—ten years ago. I personally believe the animosity stems from the fact that the cheerleaders are jealous that all they get to do is yell and jump around on the sidelines while the pom squad commands center floor and the entire crowd’s attention during halftime when we perform our latest routine. I mean, our superiority is clear to anyone with half a brain—which even the most dimly lit of the cheerleaders possess.

I whip off my sweater and am reaching for my sports bra when more giggles erupt from the cheer huddle, freezing me in place. I manage not to flinch or hunch my shoulders, but it isn’t easy. Old habits die hard, and I was the weirdly flat girl for too long to be able to strip with confidence even now that I have something up top.

Penny, another sophomore on the pom squad,