Under the Gun by Hannah Jayne
To Sandra McIsaac,
who told me she’d let me pass algebra
if I dedicated a book to her one day.
Our debt is settled. And thanks.
Acknowledgments
A book never truly has one author, and though an idea can be hatched alone, it takes a team of incredible friends and colleagues to create a story. Thank you to my editor, John Scognamiglio, who had the wherewithal to send me a politely worded e-mail that boiled down to “seriously?” To Amberly Finarelli, who will always be my agent and friend, even as she’s tending to the cries of the Twinarellis rather than the cries of errant authors. To Vida, Justine, and Alex, the best Kensington cheerleaders a girl could have. To my parents who support and encourage, even though having an adult daughter obsessed with made-up creatures probably wasn’t what they expected. To my brother, Trevor, because when people ask, “what happened in your childhood to make you write such gruesome stuff?” I can quietly point to you and fifteen beheaded Barbies. As always, tremendous thanks to Shirley, Penne, Kristin, Gary, Nadine, Marilyn, and everyone else at Club One for giving me an outlet. To the Rogue Writers Group, thanks for the constant encouragement. To my readers and fans—ohmigosh! I have readers and fans! I’m going to bake each and every one of you cupcakes. To Joan, John, and Oscar for always being there with a cocktail, toilet paper, and Diet Coke—the writer’s triumvirate. To Vicki, Robert, Katherine, Katie, Anna, and everyone else who worked on the UDA production—thank you for bringing my story to life! And last but nowhere near least, to my fellow Moustachteer Authors, Marina Adair and Britt Bury—I can’t wait until we’re old and gray, when we’ve earned our glaucoma, RA, and shoulder pain, and we live in our cozy little cottage with jars of money buried out front, talking about the good ol’ days—which is everyday we’re together. Love you guys. And don’t call me Shirley.
Chapter One
You might think that after a visit from my dead grandmother, a run-in with my dead sister, and a rent-controlled apartment shared with an undead vampire fashionista, a visit from the undead wouldn’t be so unexpected.
But you’d be wrong.
Which was why I was frowning while he stood in my doorway looking remarkably comfortable, without the faintest glow of otherworldly aura or the oozing, fetid sores I had come to expect on those who returned from the dead.
“Sophie.”
He said my name and my hackles went up; I was all at once intrigued, delighted, and horrified.
I opened my mouth and then closed it again, willing the words that tumbled through my brain to form some coherent, cohesive thought, something great and all-encompassing enough to explain what I was feeling.
“I see dead people,” I mumbled.
Without conscious thought, I snapped my arm back and slammed the door shut. I ran backward into my apartment, falling over the arm of the couch and landing with a thump on the pillows, ending in an inelegant heap on the carpet. My puppy, ChaCha, trotted over to me, sniffed, and walked away. It’s happening, it’s happening, it’s happening....
I was shaking, the mantra rolling through my head as I curled in on my chest, rocking gently. I’d known it was only a matter of time before I developed some sort of mystical powers—red hair and an insatiable appetite for chocolate or anything in a take-out box couldn’t be the only things I’d inherited from my mother and grandmother who both had been powerful mystics with the ability to tell the future.
“I’m getting my powers.” I licked my lips, terror and joy bounding through me.
That was it.
This was my power.
“I see dead people.”
I felt the words in my mouth, the exhilaration of finally belonging, and finally feeling a connection to my paranormal family and office mates chipping away at the terror that sat like an iceberg at the bottom of my gut.
The jiggling of the ancient hardware on my front door brought me crashing back to the reality of the doorknob turning in front of me. I stared at it as it moved horror-movie slow and my blood pounded in my ears. The person on the other side of the door knocked again. This time it was a quick warning rap, and when he pressed the door open, the air that I had gulped in a greedy, terrified frenzy whooshed out.
“What are you doing here?”
He grinned. “I thought you’d be happier to see me.”
I rolled over onto my back and pushed myself up, my eyes still trained on the man—the apparition?—who stood in my foyer, smile wide, welcoming, and corporeal looking.