Broken Heart 05 Over My Dead Body
Read Broken Heart 05 Over My Dead Body Online
Authors: Michele Bardsley
Tags: #Vampires, #Horror, #Fiction, #General, #Romance, #Paranormal, #Occult & Supernatural, #Oklahoma, #Single Mothers, #Love Stories, #Divorced Mothers
Over My Dead Body
By
Michele Bardsley
To Elaine Smythe,
who lives on forever in the hearts of those who love
her and in the pages of this book.
To Terri Smythe—
Terri’s Angels love, love, love you.
My children freaking rock.
My daughter, Kati, is fabulous. She’s smart, wicked funny, talented, and has a big ol’ bleeding heart. She’s got an attitude, too, and she’s mouthy. I adore her. I can only take credit for bringing her into the world and making sure she survived until adulthood—all the rest is her.
My son, Reid, is brilliant. He’s only eleven, but he has a killer sense of humor and the kindest heart. He tells cool stories and has awesome ideas. He wants to change the world. And you know something? He will.
To my children: I love you forever.
I adore Renée, Terri, Dakota, Jaynie, Juanita, and Lori (Chapman, just so we’re clear, you-know-who-you-are doubters). I am so very blessed to have you as friends. I would even give you chocolate instead of keeping it for myself—that’s how much y’all mean to me.
Jose, you have good taste in tattoos (and you, too, Beth, ’cause I know you’re reading this). And hey, no more sugar and carbs, dude. I’m sorry, but going to the hospital is BAD. Cut that shit out already!
I gotta give props to Jackie Kessler, who wrote Hell’s Belles, which is such an awesome book. I fell in love with the way she told that story and every story since. The woman has mad skills—www.jackiekessler.com.
I worship at the altar of Mark Henry. The man can flat-out write. I’m horribly jealous of his talent. If you have not checked out Amanda Feral’s fabulous and fashionable adventures, you are sooooo missing out. Go forth and buy—www.markhenry.us.
Toni McGee Causey writes very (very, very, very) funny novels about Bobbie Faye, the terror of Louisiana. I adore her and her creator, the übertalented Toni—www.bobbiefaye.com.
To all these writers I owe a world of thanks for inspiring me and for writing such kick-ass books for me to read.
I owe a debt of gratitude to those people who read this novel and offered comments: Renée, the plot master and handholder; Dakota, the deadline ho and fabulous line editor; Terri, the voice in my head yelling at me to “write the fucking book, already”; and Butch Treese, the ultimate fan who knows my books better than I do. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
No acknowledgment would be complete without gushing about my literary agent, Stephanie Kip Rostan, her rawkin’ assistant, Monika Verma, and all the wonderful people at Levine Greenberg Literary Agency.
I also gotta give high fives to my ever-patient editor, Kara Cesare, and the staff and crew at New American Library. Nobody deserves Godiva more than you guys.
I gotta say this to Miss Dakota and her man, Rob: That kind of bright and shiny love couldn’t have happened to two nicer friends. Here’s a chocolate martini for the rest of us who hope every day to find the same.
I would also like to mention Brenda Anderson. I just wanted to say to Brenda Anderson that you are a valued member of the fan group. Brenda Anderson, we don’t care that your brain juice is a quart low. Ours is, too, and we don’t even have an injury to account for why we do the stupid shit we do. And dear, dear Brenda Anderson, the one who lives in Pittsburgh and didn’t say hello until Friday at RT 2008 and then never came back to the conference so I could properly torment you, you wanted to see your name in print. Here you go: Brenda Anderson, Brenda Anderson, Brenda Anderson, Brenda Anderson, Brenda Anderson, and for good measure, Brenda Anderson.
And last (but never, ever least), I want to say how much I adore the members of my Yahoo! Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MicheleBardsley/join.
Obviously you have stupendous taste in paranormal fiction. Even though I lurk too much and I forget to send out prizes and I post erratically and I torture you with random sentences from my WIPs, I really and truly lurve you all. Mostly because you’re as crazy as I am. Don’t bother denying it.
“That which is Below corresponds to that which is Above, and that which is Above corresponds to that which is Below, to accomplish the miracles of the One Thing.”
—The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus
“Be ye angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down upon your wrath: Neither give place to the devil.”
—Ephesians 4:26-27
“Well, I think I learned a valuable lesson: Always take down your Christmas decorations after New Year’s, or you might get filleted by a hooker from God.”
—Dean Winchester, Supernatural, “Houses of the Holy”
Friday, June 21
Killing Braddock Hayes changed my life—such as it was—forever. Committing murder should change a person, at least a person who still has a conscience, and I sure as hell had mine.
My name’s Simone Sweet. My personality obviously doesn’t match my name. How could someone who was truly sweet rip open the carotid artery in a man’s neck and enjoy the thick, bloody flow of his life onto her lips?
I’m a vampire, and folks may believe that vampires walk around and kill indiscriminately. All right, some do. But not me. Not the ones I lived with in Broken Heart, Oklahoma. We had rules.
The same rules I’d tossed out the proverbial window the minute I sank my fangs into Brady’s neck and drank all of his essence.
I knelt before my sacrifice, penitent yet darkly thrilled by what I’d just done. My gaze drifted up past the pine trees. The moon was out. It shone through the feathery branches like the bright eye of the goddess, the one the lycanthropes worshipped. She had surely witnessed my act and was passing judgment on me. Could a deity that wasn’t mine punish me?
The shitty part was . . . I’d killed someone before. Before I even knew vampires and werewolves were real. Before I knew that the world in which humans lived was an illusion they created. Paranormal creatures have been with us for a very long time. It’s not so much that they’re good at hiding. It’s more that humans are better at ignoring what they don’t understand, and denying anything that doesn’t make sense in their reality.
Yes, I’d killed someone when I was human. He deserved it. I have to believe that he deserved it. But as I looked down at the corpse of Braddock Hayes, a man who’d done nothing but try to help me and my family, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore.
Nobody deserved to be killed. Not even killers.
I stood up, shaking, my body full of blood and that strange, addictive ecstasy. That was the danger of draining a human. Vampires liked it. We enjoyed blood nearly as much as women enjoyed shoe sales or free Godiva samples. That forbidden joy was why vampires who either belonged to the Consortium or followed the rules of the Ancients took only one pint every evening from willing donors.
Blood smelled like rust.
It almost looked like rust, especially when it was drying on clothes and clotting on skin. Staining my outsides, the way my sins stained my soul. It wasn’t the same as before . . . when I killed Jacob. Oh, there was blood then, too. But not like this.
I cocked my head, listening to the sounds of paws thwumping on the marshy ground and crashing through the underbrush. Lycanthropes had exceptional senses. That edge made them superb guardians of the undead.
I was still staring at the moon when a black wolf skidded into the clearing. Damian, the leader of the guardians. He sniffed Brady, his big furred face swinging toward me. He barked at me, his jade eyes glittering in accusation.
Then he lifted his snout into the air and howled.
Patrick O’Halloran and his father, Ruadan, sailed into view and landed between me and Brady. They could fly not because they were vampires, but because they were part sidhe, or fairy. They both looked like a young Pierce Brosnan with raven black hair and stormy silver eyes.
They would judge me.
Maybe the paranormal world wasn’t so different from the human world, after all.
Patrick crouched near Brady, but there was nothing he could do. I’d made sure of it.
I returned my gaze to the sky. A circle formed around the moon; its red glow stained the white orb just like the blood I’d moments ago spilled. It was almost time. I had to wait only a little while longer.
“Why, Simone?” Patrick asked quietly. “Why did you kill him?”
Strangely enough, I had killed Brady and Jacob for the same reason.
Freedom.
Damian put the cuffs on me. Patrick explained that the ornate silver was imbued with fairy magic. I wouldn’t be able to get out of them.
Duh.
Brady was dead. And with Gran and Glory . . . I shook off the heinous thoughts. I’d already lost everything important to me. I was hollow inside, but at the same time, the power within was an uncurling viper, readying to strike. Brady’s blood throbbed inside me, giving me more strength than I’d ever had before.
“Damian, return to the festival and guard the queen,” said Ruadan. “Take her to the hospital, Patrick. Dr. Merrick wants to see her.”
“I’m standing here,” I pointed out. “You don’t have to talk about me in third person.”
Ruadan and Patrick ignored me.
My gaze fell on the body of Brady. Ruadan magicked up a sheet to cover Brady. I was grateful for that kindness.
“Simone,” said Patrick. His voice was soft with empathy. How could he be nice to me after what I did? “We need to go now.”
“To Dr. Merrick.”
He nodded. I could see in his gaze that he thought I was nuts. Being crazy was an acceptable excuse for all that I’d done. But here’s the thing: I wasn’t insane.
Patrick wrapped his arms around me, presumably to do the ol’ gold-sparkly trick and get me to the hospital. None of them knew it, but I was the least of their worries.
I couldn’t stop looking at the man I’d killed, or rather at the sheet that outlined his form. Oh, Brady. My insides quivered, and I felt the heaviness of sorrow. I pushed it back.
No, I couldn’t afford grief.
Not yet.
Six days earlier
Saturday, June 15
“That’s a very fine ass,” whispered Her Royal Highness Patricia Marchand. “A definite ten.”
More like an eleven. My gaze had been roving the object of our mutual assessment for the last five minutes, which was how Queen Patsy caught me. But after taking a gander at the jeans-clad buttocks of Braddock Hayes, she seemed to understand why my gaze was superglued to the view.
“Simone Sweet,” said Patsy under her breath, “you have a naughty streak.”
I only smiled. I might be dead, but my eyes still worked—not to mention various other parts. Granted, certain parts hadn’t been in use longer than others, but that was okay by me. Vampires had to be finicky about that sort of stuff, anyway. Having sex meant saying “I do” for a hundred years.
No, thank you.
Patsy and I returned to watching the scenery. She was married to a very hot man named Gabriel, and, in fact, probably shouldn’t be ogling Brady. Not that I was gonna tell her to stop.
Even though it had been dark for at least an hour, it was still ten degrees hotter than hell. Winter had stretched on and on, clawing greedily into April. Spring had lasted all of ten seconds. The heat had rolled in, sucking all the joy out of the smallest breeze. Now it was the second week of June and we’d been afflicted by the roasting heat that usually tormented us in August. Since I was a vampire, I wasn’t sweating buckets. I didn’t have to breathe in the liquefied air, but I could still feel it rattling in my useless lungs.
Brady, however, was very much human and prone to sweating. He stopped wrangling with the equipment and stood up, whipping off his T-shirt. I’d been eyeballing him for a while now. He had moved to Broken Heart in February; he was a former member of the Paranormal Research and Investigation Services. Our resident dragon, Libby, and her parents, who had founded PRIS, lived here, too.
Brady and I had kind of become friends. I used the term loosely because, really, I didn’t have friends. Oh, I knew people in town, and most of ’em were friendly enough. I was just real careful not to get too close to anyone.