by Stacey Jay
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Acknowledgements
Undead Much
RAZORBILL
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Young Readers Group
345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2010 Stacey Jay
All rights reserved
Jay, Stacey.
Undead much / Stacey Jay. p. cm.
Sequel to: You are so undead to me.
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Megan Berry learns the secret of why she is such a powerful Settler, gets help from a new friend in battling a siege from a zombie army, and tries to reach second base with her boyfriend, Ethan.
eISBN : 978-1-101-19655-7
[1. Zombies—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. Dead—Fiction. 4. High schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 7. Arkansas—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.J344Und 2010 [Fic]—dc22
2009021093
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To Riley Roo, quite possibly the coolest five-year-old ever
CHAPTER 1
Okay, this was it. The BIG moment.
After two months of training so hard, we barely had the energy to shower before we fell into bed—let alone ravage each other the way two teenagers in love should totally be ravaging each other—Ethan and I were alone on Sunday night, the last night of winter break.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks,” Ethan mumbled against my lips, leaning into me until my back touched the inside of the car door.
“I’m so glad training is over until spring break.” A part of me actually wished Junior Enforcer training was over forever, but I didn’t tell him that.
Ethan loved having the chance to learn from what were basically the secret-service officers of the zombie Settling world. He wanted to join their ranks when he turned twenty, and the experience he was gaining would prove invaluable when it was time to put in his application.
Besides, he didn’t seem to care that the only reason the Enforcers were hanging around Carol, Arkansas, was because of his freakishly powerful girlfriend, so the least I could do was keep my mouth shut about how grueling I’d found the past few months. A lot of boyfriends would not be cool with a girl being so much better than them at something. And I was better, way better. I was probably the most powerful sixteen-year-old zombie Settler in the history of the U.S.
On the days when it helped me put to rest a kid who’d crawled out of his grave with major issues or to kick black-magically raised zombie butt, I really appreciated the gift. The rest of the time . . . I kind of wished 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 said, 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 laughed, then sighed as he trailed little kisses down my neck. Neck kisses. Who knew they would be so . . . fabulous?
“Now,” he murmured, “if you could just say something in French while wearing that hat and doing that . . . thing you do . . .” I pressed my lips to his neck, dragging my teeth over his skin just the tiniest bit as I pulled away. “Yeah, that thing.” The way his voice trembled made me feel oddly powerful and nervous at the same time.
But it was a good nervous. Everything Ethan made me feel was good. Good, good, good, good. So good, I couldn’t believe he was really my boyfriend, that I was the one he called every night to say “I love you” to before he turned out the light.
Still, the whole “talk French to me, baby” stuff was pure guy weirdness.
“I think you’ve got issues with the French thing.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. You might need therapy.”
“Kiss therapy.” He wiggled his eyebrows, but even that level of goofiness couldn’t detract from his yum factor. He’d cut his dirty blond hair so it didn’t hang down in front of his face quite the way it had when we first met, but he was still Greek-god gorgeous. And now I could see his amazing green eyes even better than before.
I stared 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.”
“Are you calling me a dork?”
“Total dork. A really hot dork, but—”
“Well, that makes it all better.” I wrapped my arms around his neck, giggling as he tugged me through the narrow opening between the front seats and into the back of his Mini Cooper.
It was freakishly small back there, even with the seats folded down, and neither of us is particularly short, but I couldn’t care less. I hardly noticed that my legs were folded into a pretzel when Ethan pulled me on top of him.
Man, he felt good. So solid and warm and the kisses . . . God, the kisses.
These were what kisses were supposed to feel like. Like your lips were on fire—in the good way, not the “I just ate three jalapeño peppers on a dare” way—and the fire was spreading to every inch of your body. Even if we hadn’t left the car running and the heat on, I wouldn’t have noticed the cold. I couldn’t notice anything but him, and his lips, and his hands. I loved his hands, those hands . . . that were slowly moving up the back of my sweater
. . . and sort of sliding beneath my bra strap.
Oh. Crap. Was this it? Were we going there? Was I ready to go there? I mean, heck yes, nothing felt as good as kissing Ethan, so I was sure doing other things with Ethan was going to be pretty fab too. And I turned sixteen over two months ago, so I was probably overdue for some groping, but—
Gah! Groping? Couldn’t I think of a better word, something at least remotely romantic or sexy or something?
“You feel amazing,” he said, before his tongue slipped past my lips.
“Mmmm.” I moaned my agreement. Not agreeing that I tasted amazing, of course, but that he did. He tasted like coffee and caramel from the Starbucks we’d snagged on the way out to his grandfather’s farm, and like . . . Ethan. Yummy, perfect, wonderful, hot, nineteen-year-old-in-college Ethan who was no doubt tired of taking it slow with his nearly-three-and-a-half-years-younger girlfriend.
Yep. He was definitely tired of taking it slow.
He eased apart the hooks on my lavender demi-cup bra with a practiced little flip of his fingers, making my heart race for reasons that had 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 left no doubt he’d done this many, many times before. Or at least many more times than I had.
Which was none. Zero.
God, what should I do?
On one hand I was really feeling the full-body tingleness of being with Ethan. But on the other hand, I was freaking out. I mean, we hadn’t been able to go on a real date in weeks, not since we’d exchanged Christmas presents at his mom’s house and then gone to a midnight showing of It’s a Wonderful Life at the community center.
And then I’d had to be home right after, so there’d only been time for a little kissing. Shouldn’t there be some sort of learning curve, a way to ease into this? I’m really an easing kind of person. I don’t jump into the deep end—I wade slowly in from the shallow part of the pool, giving myself time to adjust.
Where was the time to adjust?!
Ethan paused. “Megan, I—”
Suddenly there was a knocking at the window.
I screamed a piercing, girly scream that made Ethan wince, but I couldn’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-brathrough-my-sweater type of girl.
“Um, sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out in there.” The voice outside was male, but it didn’t sound like anyone I knew.
He was definitely a young guy, however, which meant we’d escaped being discovered by Ethan’s seventy-year-old grandfather. Thank. God. I really didn’t want to look Pop-Pop in the eye while my bra was still unhooked.
Not that a complete stranger was a much better option.
“But, um . . . I’m here,” the dude outside said. “So are you coming out?”
“Who the heck are you?” Ethan asked.
Excellent question. Who was he and why was 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? Ethan and I had been sure even the cows would be shacked up somewhere warm.
“Megan? That is Megan Berry in there, right?” the guy asked.
“You know this guy?” Ethan grabbed the flashlight he left rolling around in his trunk, brandishing it like a weapon as he turned toward the window.
“I don’t think so.” I sighed with relief as I finally managed to get my bra back in position. Call me crazy, but I felt a thousand times more prepared to deal once the girls were properly strapped in. Even a possible stalker didn’t seem as scary when securely undergarmented.
I noticed Ethan was looking frustrated. Or angry. Or something. Geez, you’d think I’d invited the strange dude to come hang out with us while we sucked face.
Groped. Sucked face. Yuck. I really needed to work on my descriptions of kissy-kissy behavior.
“Stay here, I’m going to check out your friend.” Ethan had popped open the door and was sliding out into the night before I could protest. That dude was not my friend.
Not that it would have mattered. This wasn’t the first time I’d noticed Ethan’s hint of a jealous streak. Though it usually thrilled me to see him get all scowly when one of the other Settler boys checked me out during Enforcer drills.
I mean, Ethan was the hottest boy living—as far as I was concerned—and knowing he felt the same way about me was unbelievable. I’m no dog, but neither am I model material. I’m average height, with average long frizzy brown hair, which must be tamed with a scalding hot Chi to achieve any level of smoothness, and pretty decent brown eyes with a hint of gold around the irises. I’m a little too skinny, 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 still need creative padding to form any “luscious lady lumps” under my sweater.
“Megan? Did you hear me? You should come out and see this.” Ethan stuck his head through the rear window. He sounded more shocked than jealous, which should have let me know right away there was some Settler weirdness going down. Wasn’t there always? I mean, could we ever spend a night together without dead people being in some way involved?
No, of course we couldn’t.
Still, I was legitimately surprised to see a dead guy standing next to Ethan, stomping his sneakered feet in the remains of the snow that had fallen the night before, looking amazingly lifelike for a zombie. His shoulder-length hair—brown or black, I couldn’t quite tell in the moonlight—was clean and soft looking and his expression excited and friendly. In fact, if I hadn’t been able to smell the funky grave odor clinging to his jeans and oversize striped sweater, I wouldn’t have thought he was deceased at all.
“Hey! Megan, good to meet you. I’d recognize you anywhere. That’s some mojo you’ve got going. I caught your energy the second I liberated myself from that crypt.” He smiled, revealing two dazzling rows of super straight teeth and reached out to grab my hand. The guy had been very cute when he was alive, in a sort of saggy-pantsstoner way. “I’m Cliff.”
“Cliff?”
“Clifford Joseph Frankincense Harvester, reporting for duty.”
“Duty?” I repeated, so shocked I could barely bring myself to squeeze his hand and pump it up and down a few times before detangling myself. Manners are good and all, but the smell of fresh grave just doesn’t come out of clothes without some major effort.
I would have dodged the hand entirely, in fact, if I’d ever had a zombie chat me up the way Cliff was doing. Usually the naturally Unsettled were kind of out of it until a Settler gave the cue to start blabbing. Even then, the majority of people who were troubled enough by unfinished business from their living days to crawl out of their graves and seek intervention weren’t in the mood for idle conversation.
They came, they groaned and shuffled, I asked them what was up, and they confessed their issues. Then I promised to take care of their bidness and sent 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 was a second-stage Settler, I had to follow them back to their place of rest and seal them in with a special ceremony so no one could resurrect them with black magic.
After having been nearly killed by Reanimated Corpses—RCs, as Ethan liked to call them—back in September, I took grave sealing very seriously. Really, I took just about everything very seriously. Learning that your best friend had been planning to kill you for years does that to a girl. My former BFF, Jess, was now in a Settlers’ Affairs prison in Little Rock awaiting trial and sentencing, but that didn’t really help me feel any safer. If I’d been stupid enough to be b
est friends with a witch who wanted to watch black-magically raised zombies munch my flesh, my safety wasn’t something I could take for granted.
“Yeah, I figured it was a nice night, and I’ve never walked through a fresh snow before,” Cliff said with a shrug.
“So you came to find me because you have never taken a walk in the snow?” Never in my entire life—either in the five years of Settling the dead when I was a kid, or in the past four months of being back in the business now that my powers have returned—had I ever heard a request like this.
Usually people had real issues. They wanted to tell someone they had been fighting with before they died that they loved them; they had unfinished business that affected the living or made them feel guilty in death; and sometimes they even had to get the name of their killer off their chests and into the hands of the proper authorities.
I’d had more than my share of murdered teens in the past few months. Unfortunately, my extraordinarily strong Settler power drew them to me like flies to a steaming fresh pile of cow poo.
Speaking of cow poo, we were bound to run into some if Cliff really wanted to stroll. Looked like my new suede boots—and my romantic date with Ethan—were shot.
“Um, yeah. That’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 asked, then turned to Ethan with a sheepish grin. “If you don’t mind, of course. I’m assuming you’re the boyfriend?”
“No, sure. I mean, yeah. But that’s fine,” Ethan stammered, obviously thrown by Cliff as well. “I’ll wait in the car—you two go ahead and stroll.”
“Okay.” I smiled at Cliff as I grabbed Ethan’s hand and pulled him back toward the car. “Just let me grab my coat.”
“No problem. You living people get cold.” He laughed, a strangely infectious sound that made me want to laugh too. Good thing I didn’t, however, since Ethan didn’t look amused. “I haven’t been dead that long. 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. Unless it’s on television, and you’ve got lots of snacks for during the commercials.”