Queen of the Dead (The Dead and Not So Dead Book 1) Read online

  I told him the truth. I thought they were beautiful.

  They only added to the gorgeous package that was him. I wanted to kiss, lick, and bite each part of him and that wasn’t an over-exaggeration. The man just did it for me. His hair was always slicked back, like this morning. The midnight color matched his wolf perfectly. His dangerous eyes were back to a dark green, framed by thick dark lashes. Honestly, sometimes he was almost too pretty to look at. The man had better cheekbones than I did. Don’t even get me started on his perfectly sculpted lips. It was very cruel and unfair.

  I mean I’ve been blessed by the goddess of death. Shouldn’t that warrant instant beauty or something? I suppose I should feel lucky. The bitch could have cursed me to look like a corpse instead.

  “What are you talking about, Baby?” He frowned, his dark brows pushing together. I was briefly distracted by the two small gold snake bite piercings he had. They glinted in the light if you were paying attention but were small enough that you could overlook them.

  I thought they were pretty sexy.

  I narrowed my eyes. I looked down at my watch to confirm my thoughts before speaking. “It’s Saturday before noon, Raphi.”

  His jaw tightened as he decided to play dumb. “Yeah. It is. So what?”

  I tilted my head. “So, I know for a fact you don’t leave the house this early unless it’s for a reason. Not even to visit me. So, either you ditched what you were supposed to be doing with prior plans to scare off Jonathan,” I watched his expression. “Or you could fucking smell him from down the block and just rushed over.”

  Bingo!

  His jaw released as he took a sip of my coffee. He stretched his massive arms above his head, ignoring my question at first. Raphi and the other boys lived in a house down the street that was owned by Alaric’s family. Well, Alaric and Abel. They were twins. Their family was off doing whatever vampires did after a few centuries of being bored, so they had taken control of the property.

  “I was taking out the trash,” he reasoned. I didn’t miss the double meaning, “I’m just defending you against the evils of men. You should be thanking me.”

  I chuckled authentically. “Oh? And how does your wolf feel about Jonathan?”

  An answering rumble escaped from Raphi’s chest, as it did whenever I talked about his wolf. Raphi muttered a curse. I let my power drift out to gently surround us, something that always calmed his wolf down. As with many things, my powers could give and take. The balance was important. I fed off the dead but I needed the living as well. It wouldn’t do anyone any favors if I became saturated with too much raw power and lost my shit.

  My power loved Raphi. It hovered around him protectively as if to say “Fuck off. If he dies, he’s ours.” Not at all morbid.

  Magic is possessive like that though. Even for necromancers. While it was depressing, I can’t really avoid the world of the dead, now can I? I was literally born to do just this.

  “He’s a possessive bastard,” he muttered softly. I nodded and sipped my coffee. It was true and long established that Raphi’s wolf was possessive over me. Apparently, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to change that. It made for some really fucking funny moments and also made me wishing Raphi, the man, felt the same.

  “I hate tourists,” I commented. A tour bus rumbled past spewing clouds of black smoke from its exhaust. Raphi chuckled slightly, relieved for the topic change as we sat back into the floral padded chairs. Neither of us were dressed for the day but in the shade of my front porch it didn’t matter.

  I felt safe and secure on the porch. Maybe it was the wrought iron fence that surrounded the property or the heavy ferns that lined the fence and house. It was something I didn’t normally feel walking the streets of good old Nola. The protective wards helped. It was funny seeing humans scurry quickly past because it something felt “off” about the home.

  I supposed the sense of security came from more than that though. It came from the small traditional street lamps that sat on either side of the paved sidewalk leading to the porch steps. It came from the freshly painted white surface we sat on, echoed by the balcony above it where the master suite let out. It came from a sense of home. My home. And it would be this way for however long I lived. I was a creature of habit and I didn’t see that changing anytime soon.

  Now, you may have wondered what could possibly scare me. After all, I was Queen of the Dead? I was scared of the same thing that frightens the rich and famous.

  Fucking crazy people.

  Sure, I was powerful. But did that mean I wanted someone attacking me? No, because then I would have to kill them. I preferred to let people think I’m so crazy that I don’t need to actually kill anyone. For the record, I’m generally a fucking nice person if you weren’t being a dick. Thank you very much.

  Speaking of dicks...I stared up at the master suite balcony and it’s white-washed slats and scowled. I was still annoyed my grandma had refused to take the master suite. She claimed it looked bad for a queen to not have the biggest room. Odd, I know. Especially since she had been Queen of the Dead before me. But she had insisted on giving it up. Now, she was relegated to one of the smaller rooms where she would spend her retirement for the next four hundred years. A fun-filled, responsibility-free four hundred years.

  Lucky bitch.

  In all reality, though, living here with my grandma was fantastic. It was always interesting and eternally beautiful. The beautiful mix of Italianate and Greek Revival architecture, with its trademark white columns, had been the only home I had ever known. I could feel the history and ancestors vibrating through the land around us. It helped that most of our family was buried in a private graveyard out back.

  Oh, you think that is weird? Come on! What was I supposed to do? Force the family spirits to float all the way over from a graveyard to visit? That’s would just be shitty.

  “What do we have planned for today?” Raphi asked after a half an hour of comfortable silence. My head rested against his warm chest. The gentle sway of the porch swing had me feeling pretty Zen. I didn’t miss that his wolf vibrated in his chest with a soft content purr.

  Yes, I totally used his wolf’s feelings toward me to get physically closer with Raphi. Sue me. The man smelled like freshly baked cookies.

  “We have to meet with some hellhounds,” I muttered with distaste.

  Raphi growled. I grinned at the feral response. I stood up appraising his jeans and t-shirt, knowing he threw them on very last minute. I smirked at his bare feet and he scowled. A sudden movement on the right caught my eye. I watched a spirit trail through our backyard, an ephemeral frown on its face.

  Get off my fucking property, you asshole!

  Raphi’s arms encircled my waist. “What?”

  I looked up at his impressive height. I pointed at the spirit he couldn’t see. “Goddamned ghost is walking across my lawn. How rude!”

  The spirit looked up, squeaked, and disappeared. I smirked. I was a scary motherfucker. Ghosts knew that. I had sent far too many of them to the Other for it not to be so. You wanted to stay on Earth for the next millennium, I didn’t give a rat’s ass. But don’t be an asshole about it. Like Steve. I still planned to confront the ghost down the street. He’d been scaring the crap out of some human family for nearly two full weeks now.

  Now, I would never send someone to the Other for walking across my lawn, but it was still very rude.

  Also, before you ask, I don’t know what the Other is. I can’t confirm it is heaven and I don’t think it is hell because the demonic realm was the inspiration for that mythos. All I know is that when a spirit becomes too much of a problem or flat out asks me to release them from this world, I refer to that final destination as the Other.

  So there you have it folks. Narc in a nutshell. I literally work with the afterlife and still cannot give you an answer on the age old life after death question. I mean, there are plenty of freaky things in this world. That doesn’t even begin to include any of the other realms. Take the demonic realm. It’s real and defies rational explanation on a daily basis. So, yeah. Who knows?

  “You freaked him out, didn’t you?” He hadn’t had to see the ghost to know that my words alone had sent the spirit packing. “You know, you look crazy to most people. Living and dead.”

  I grinned. “It’s not a look. It’s a lifestyle, Honey Buns.”

  “Be back in an hour,” he chuckled at my sugar-coated term of endearment. He pressed a quick kiss to my head before jogging off. I watched his retreating form and began to make my way inside. Ok. More like checked out his muscular butt. But you would have, too. Trust me.

  I took one last deep breath, enjoying the humidity and taste of life on my tongue. New Orleans, specifically the French Quarter, was a lively city and not just for terms the living. It had such a rich, almost decadent past that provided me an unlimited buffet of options of dead. It was also probably why some of the most powerful necromancers ever known, my family, had decided to move here. Or, maybe it is filled with the dead because we live here? Who knows? My grandma reported meeting another necromancer in Europe but hasn't met another since. We are a rare breed and on top of that, not welcomed. I mean, I am essentially the Grim Reaper.

  Such a catch. Believe you me, I am not sure how I haven’t been snatched up already. Except for maybe the fact that my overprotective friends would probably kill anyone who tried that, if I didn’t beat them to it.

  No one would ever own me. I am far too fabulous to fall to that fate.

  As I stepped into the front hallway and admired my home. I wasn’t naïve enough to think that everyone lived as I did. I made sure it didn’t go unappreciated. It helped that I had an interest in architecture that would probably serve to entertain me even a hundred years or so
down the line. Maybe, I would even make it big and create something completely original.

  I silently scoffed. No such thing as originality. Everything derives from something.

  I let my hand trail along the woodwork as I made my way to the kitchen. One of the elements we as a family had been sure to preserve throughout the ages was the glorious and original woodwork of the home. It was a deep cherry color that shone on the floors and edged the cream colored walls. Oriental carpets, woven in red and gold, sat in the hallway and the sitting room off to the left. The crown molding, a gilded gold, matched the original chandeliers that had been altered to work with electricity. It was as close as one could get to how the original construction would have looked.

  Fine already! I admit it. I had a fucking crush on this house.

  I couldn’t help it. There was a lot of me in this house. I had aided my grandma in picking out all new furniture once my mother had passed away. Mother still complained about the change on a daily and man did it annoy the shit out of me. Her choices had been horrible during her time. I simply chose a more elegant and neutral style of decor. I shook my head thinking back to the horribly dated leather couches my mom had tried to put in such a classic home.

  She should have known better than that.

  Oh, by the way, if you think I am being harsh about my mother I would like to point out a critical fact. You have never met her. It’s a good thing. I would never want to subject anyone to that. But while she is “dead,” it is very hard to mourn someone that is literally floating around your house complaining about shit.

  “Sweetheart?” Grandma called from the kitchen. I smiled as I walked into a room filled with cherry wood cabinets and granite counters.

  “Morning.” I smiled and kissed her cheek. As I mentioned, my grandma looked to be in her late thirties at most. The two of us were often confused for mother and daughter. We used that to our advantage when the humans asked questions.

  This morning my grandma sat at the counter wearing her soft silk, floor-length robe. Dramatically graceful with a porcelain cup of black tea, a habit she’d picked up when she had lived in England. The woman had an aura of classic beauty and grace that was timeless. Where my grandma had been graced with elegant, fine features, I had been cursed with the “cute” syndrome.

  I should explain. My grandma and I both have a golden coloring that is just dark enough for people call us “exotic.” That alone pisses me off for entirely different reasons. First, I am not your fucking fetish. I couldn’t count with all my fingers and toes the amount of human men who had called me that twisted compliment. If you want an exotic experience go eat a crawfish! Suck the head and pinch that tail, okay? Secondly, my family has been here way longer than most of you motherfuckers, so you’re the exotic ones. Not me. To be fair, the details on our heritage were pretty sketchy. I had a lot of conflicting opinions from all my relatives but the only thing I knew for sure was that we had owned this piece of land, before this home had even been built, since before America had been “discovered.” So not from a distant foreign land.

  Rant over. Moving on.

  With the golden skin tone came angular feline features that were almost too sharp. Beyond that, the similarities ended. My grandma had a long regal nose. Mine was a motherfucking button dotted with soft freckles. Grandma had silky straight hair that twisted and bent to her will. I loved my hair but it was a force of nature. Especially when you considered the humidity. It reached down to my mid-back, a deep midnight with an undercurrent of caramel in the loose waves. I had dyed the ends a bright red but it was fading into a darker crimson. My grandma was around 5’8”, where I measured out at a petite 5’5”. Both my mother and grandmother had been blessed curvy bodies. I had been given a leaner, more athletically toned body. No D-cups for me. I did work on my butt religiously, so I have to give my ass credit where it was due. It looked fantastic from the back. Trust me. I had peeked in a few mirrors.

  The point of all of this? I suffered from the cute syndrome. Short. Little. Button nose. Feminine features. Golden skin. Dark wavy soft hair. Cute. Not sexy. Cute. It didn’t help that I had long lashes and a pair of massive golden orbs speckled with emerald that took up most of the real estate on my face. That just made me look like one of those creepy fucking dolls. The antidote to cute syndrome?

  Dress like a fucking badass.

  “I don’t know why you insist on wearing those...” Grandma finished the rest of her sentence in Hindi, most likely hoping to not offend me and my fashion choices. Boots included. She sipped her tea and offered me a smile. I was onto her, though. While I didn’t know Hindi yet, I would get there. I felt I owed it to myself and the random ancestors floating around to educate myself with the ample time allotted me.

  I wasn’t 100% positive when the ancestors had come over from India but at some point in time, someone from there came here and made babies. That was an assumption but one shared by a large percentage of my ancestors. Most believed we were either Indian or Native American. I figured a little bit of both. And while most of my relatives didn’t celebrate the culture, Grandma very much did. So, I promised myself when I had some down time, I would learn the language.

  Then the bitch couldn’t talk shit about my clothing choices.

  I grabbed a container of grapes and looked down to see what she saw. Motorcycle boots and an oversized shirt with some jean shorts. Was it Project Runway? No. Then again, it was fucking 10 a.m., so who the fuck would expect me to look like Heidi F-ing Klum?

  “Who knows,” I smiled putting away the grapes after filling a bowl. “Maybe I will curb stomp some hellhounds today. The boots would really help drive the point home with those babies.”

  Plus, I did own a motorcycle so it wasn’t just a fashion choice. Also, the bottom of them read “Shut Up.” When I put my feet up, people understood the message loud and clear.

  I guess I was sort of a bitch, but then again these monsters had some serious problems. It was hard to control them without being an asshole.

  Grandma let out a solid laugh as I left the kitchen and headed upstairs with a renewed energy. I always enjoyed getting ready for the show that was being Queen of the Dead. Not that I wasn’t always that position, but when I went out in public, it required a little extra drama.

  I passed the stained glass window on the second floor stair landing and threw open my bedroom door. The master suite was truly a great room and one of my favorite spaces. Besides Bourbon Street.

  It was a paradox. The leather-motorcycle-boot-wearing necromancer liked simple, elegant cream colored decor. My bed was white with cream and lavender sheets that matched the pinstripe-patterned seating arrangement around the fireplace. I moved to open up all my windows and the balcony door before going to my wardrobe. The one thing I disliked about older homes was the lack of closet space. It was my only complaint.

  After grabbing a pair of black ripped jean shorts and a tank top, I skipped into the bathroom. I pinned up my hair and looked at myself in the mirror. I frowned at how young I looked and wondered for the tenth million time how anyone considered me a Queen.

  I don’t even mean that as a dis towards what I do because, honestly, I fucking rock at keeping people in line. Especially the vampires that had been turned. Those guys were the undead. The other type of vampire was born and could turn others into vampires. The born vampires were very much alive and simply had a taste for blood.

  But back to the Queen thing. I just felt so young to be in charge of so much and I found myself very thankful for my friends. If it wasn’t for the boys, I wouldn’t be nearly as confident in my ability to enforce supernatural law effectively on such a wide level. Talk only goes so far. I mean what is a Queen without her guard?

  The tub was filled with warm steaming water already, housekeeping predicting that I would want to take a bath. Those sneaky fuckers. They were so good at being invisible and all I wanted to do was talk to them. I mean I am not that scary. I slipped into the water and groaned at the contact.