Cat's Claw
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
epilogue
death’s daughter
PRAISE FOR
death’s daughter
“Amber Benson does an excellent job of creating strong characters, as well as educating the reader on some great mythology history . . . a fast-paced and very entertaining story.”
—Sacramento Book Review
“One of the greatest risks but ultimate triumphs of the novel stems from Benson’s deft ability to take any myth or belief and make it her own . . . Through the eyes of our story’s protagonist, Benson provides a devilish sense of humor and a modern pop-culture sensibility that keep the proceedings light and entertaining . . . Fiercely inventive characterization carries this story throughout.
“In Death’s Daughter, Benson provides a fun romp that defines the rules of an exciting new universe you’ll be chomping at the bit to dive back into time and again. There’s action; there’s intrigue, redemption, an adorable Hell puppy, and even a hot guy or two. What more could you ask for?”
—Buffyfest
“An urban fantasy series featuring a heroine whose macabre humor fits perfectly with her circumstances. Sure to appeal to fans of Tanya Huff’s Vicki Nelson series and Charles de Lint’s urban fantasies.”
—Library Journal
“Amber Benson writes an amusing, action-packed, chick-lit urban fantasy loaded with more twists and curves than a twist-a-whirl . . . Filled with humor and wit, this is a refreshing, original thriller as double, triple, and nth crossings are the norm.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“With a creative story line as proof, Ms. Benson adds writing to her ever-growing list of talents. Set within an intriguing paranormal world, Death’s Daughter unfolds a seductive tale of power and deception. A great start to a series that will be easy for readers to get hooked on.”
—Darque Reviews
“A beguiling blend of fantasy and horror . . . Calliope emerges as an authentically original creation . . . Benson gives [her] a wonderfully varied landscape to explore, with elements of Hindu and Norse mythology and European folklore swirling around more familiar Judeo-Christian lore . . . The humorous tone never gets in the way of the imaginative weirdness of the supernatural events.
“Death’s Daughter opens the door on an intriguing, fully thought-out universe, with a likable main character and the potential for mayhem around every corner. It’s a lot of fun.”
—Fangoria
“The first-person point of view and the fast-paced plotting contribute immensely to creating a lively and funny story packed with nonstop action . . . Benson’s flair for combining mythology and pop culture to create laugh-out-loud characters and incidents strongly reminded me of Esther Friesner’s Temping Fate.”
—The Green Man Review
“It’s really rare when I laugh out loud at a character while reading a book—but I did in this one because of the way Calliope’s character was written . . . If you like character-driven stories with a touch of dark humor, romance, and adventure, I think you’re really going to like Death’s Daughter.”
—Flames Rising
“Callie is sarcastic, smart-mouthed, and overwhelmed. I liked her, a lot! I found this to be an amusing book from start to finish. It was refreshing to have a lighthearted but still-suspenseful paranormal come on the scene. The mythology and settings were unique and creepy (my favorite) . . . Callie’s voice was spot-on for a twenty-four-year-old assistant living in New York who is suddenly dropped into the middle of Hell. I have a feeling this is the start of a series, so I will be eagerly awaiting more adventures of Callie, Clio, and Runt the hellhound.”
—Night Owl Romance
“A clever and well-told story . . . It’s also a step outside the current paranormal-fantasy rut but with enough elements in common to please fans of that form as well.”
—Critical Mass
“Amber Benson has created a brash, sassy heroine oozing attitude as she deals with family, business, an angry Goddess, zombie armies, and betrayal in this imaginative blend of assorted mythologies. The snappy dialogue keeps pace with the quick pace while providing a fun touch of self-deprecating humor. It should be interesting to see where Benson takes Callie next.”
—Monsters and Critics
“Multitalented doesn’t begin to cover the gifts of former Buffy
TV-alumna Benson. Her quirky, cranky, and humorous heroine
leads readers on a wacky first-person adventure through Hell.
Great supporting characters and wild antics keep the pace brisk
and the humor flowing.”
—Romantic Times
“Enjoyable . . . One of the novel’s best features is the underlying tongue-in-cheek humor that runs throughout the narrative. Readers who enjoy a hefty dose of wit in their paranormal fantasy will embrace this book.”
—Bitten by Books
“Death’s Daughter is a goofy, funny fantasy that falls into the category of the lightest sort of reading.”
—Patricia’s Vampire Notes
“There’s a whole lot of promise here . . . enjoyable.”
—SF Site
“A rich cast of characters and universe.”
—Fandomania
“An enjoyable read, and I will definitely be picking up the next in the series.”
—Geek Like Me
Ace Books by Amber Benson
DEATH’S DAUGHTER
CAT’S CLAW
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
CAT’S CLAW
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Be
nson Entertainment, Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / March 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Benson Entertainment, Inc.
All rights reserved.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-18537-7
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For my sister
one
Hi, my name is Calliope Reaper-Jones . . . and my dad is the Grim Reaper.
There, I’ve said it—and even though it did make me feel like I was taking part in some weird supernatural version of Al-Anon—now that I’ve gotten it off my chest, I do sort of feel better about being a half-human, half-supernatural freakazoid who—you know, let me just interrupt myself for one little minute here because . . . who the hell am I kidding?
No matter how many times I say it out loud, I will always be different, always full of self-loathing for the nonhuman part of myself that just doesn’t quite fit in with human society even when I’m desperately trying to jam myself into it. I might have some Homo sapiens DNA swimming around in my gene pool, but that little bit of human being-ness isn’t nearly enough to make me a normal human girl.
No matter how much I want it to.
Okay, I know I sound like a whiner, but all I ever wanted in the whole world was to be normal. What’s wrong with wanting two normal parents, a couple of normal siblings, and a normal family pet or two? I mean, is all that pretty standard human-family stuff really too much to ask for?
Apparently so . . . because there is no “being normal” allowed when you’re the spawn of the crème de la crème of Supernatural Royalty. Let me just go on the record right here and now and say that being Death’s Daughter sucks—and I mean major, hard-core suckage.
Of course, as much as I want to lay the blame solely at my dad’s feet, I have a really hard time being mad at him. Maybe I’m being too lenient here, but at least he was who he was when my mother met him—and there was never any chance of changing that . . . and I mean ever. My mother, on the other hand, knew exactly what she was getting into when she fell in love with the Grim Reaper. She willingly accepted my dad’s marriage proposal, willingly took the oath of immortality, and in the process, doomed my sisters and me to an eternity of supernatural abnormalcy!
But try explaining that to her. She just gets all weepy-eyed and makes me feel guilty for even daring to mention that she might be slightly responsible for my predicament. I mean, there’s just no winning with my mother. In fact, to hear her tell it, the reason that I was so miserable had nothing at all to do with her or my father or their unholy union.
As far as she was concerned, I could put the blame right on the doorstep of the Atlanta Humane Society.
It’s actually not as bizarre as it sounds.
Let me explain:
The story goes that back when she was a normal mortal, and the head buyer for all the Neiman Marcus stores in the Southeast, my mother had been roped into emceeing the annual Atlanta Humane Society Charity Fashion Show by a friend—not knowing that this one charity fashion show was about to change her life, if not for the better, then at least for the interesting. She tried every excuse she could think of to get out of it: sick relatives that she had to visit, a sore throat . . . but her friend was immovable and no amount of cajoling or threatening or crying could garner my mother a rain check.
Why the President and CEO of Death, Inc., was at a charity fashion show in Atlanta, Georgia, is another story, but that’s where he was and thank God for that. Otherwise, he’d probably have married some dopey Goddess, or other magic-related babe from the supernatural canon, and I would be so full of magical ability that I would be totally unable to hold down a “normal” job. Let alone stay sane at a company like House and Yard, where I am the Executive Assistant to the Vice President of Sales, working to oversee the smooth running of the company that brings you all those “nifty” home and garden gadgets that proliferate the airwaves of the Home Shopping Channel.
Anyway, whatever his reasons for being there, my dad and his Executive Assistant, Jarvis, were seated in the front row, right smack-dab in line with the emcee’s podium. Immediately, my dad homed in on the beautiful young woman standing uncomfortably above him, extolling the virtues of a pair of neon pink palazzo pants that some model was wearing as she slunk down the runway.
Enrapturing (his word, not mine), my dad thought to himself, watching the beautiful young woman flip through the index cards she held in her hands as she spoke.
Utterly enchanting.
At that moment, he knew in his heart that he had finally—after many years of searching—made the acquaintance of the love of his life. Before him, high on her podium, stood the future Mrs. Death.
The happy couple quietly eloped six months later.
So, all of the above means that my parents are madly in love with each other, and as long as they continue to enjoy their lives together—and my dad continues to be the President and CEO of Death, Inc.—I and my entire family will continue to be immortal.
I suppose some people would consider this whole “immortality” thing to be, like, the greatest gift a parent could ever give their kid, but I’m here to tell you that it completely, totally, unbelievably . . . bites. I mean, imagine losing every person you ever loved to age and decay, while you stayed young and beautiful for eternity—or until you could figure out some way to renounce your immortality without pissing your dad off.
Let me just say that immortality fully screws with your head . . . and I know this from experience.
When I was a teenager, I was in a car crash with two of my best friends, and while I walked away without so much as a scratch, I did get the exciting experience of watching my two friends die horrible, agonizing deaths. It was, like, awesome!
Not.
So, believe me, I do know what the hell I’m talking about when I say immortality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be—even though there are some idiots out there that still think being immortal is, like, the cat’s meow.
To those people I offer these ten simple words: Spend a day in my shoes, and then we’ll talk.
In fact, how about you slip into my sexy little size 8 Manolo Blahnik faux zebra pumps that I got on sale at Barneys and try this day on for size.
it all started on what I thought was a reasonably normal Thursday evening. I had just shut down my computer, packed up my cute Louis Vuitton knockoff messenger bag—I didn’t even know Louis Vuitton did a messenger bag until I saw this little number sitting in Times Square—and was getting ready to walk over to the elevator and press the down button, when my cell phone rang.
At least, I thought it was my cell phone.
I dug around in my bag, looking for my stupid BlackBerry wannabe, praying it would continue to ring just long enough for me to follow the sound down to whatever nether region of my purse the dumb thing was seeking asylum in that day. Apparently, my handheld device had something going with my checkbook because I found it wedged—in a strangely sexual position—in between the check register and that weird plastic divider thing no checkbook holder ever seems to be without.
Of course, my hand closed on the stupid thing just as it stopped ringing, so I immediately pressed the answer key, hoping against hope to catch whoever was on the other end of the line anyway.
Nothing happened.
I put the phone part of the device to my ear, hoping for heavy breathing, and/or other ass
orted noises, but it was absolutely dead.
“Damn it,” I mumbled under my breath, annoyed—and definitely not expecting anyone to say anything in return.
“Hello . . . ?” a voice sang through the receiver.
I almost dropped the phone.
“Helloooo . . . ?” I said in return, my voice completely belying my thoroughly confused state of being. I had definitely heard a serious lack of dial tone only seconds before, so who the hell was poltergeist-ing my PDA?
“Hello . . . ?” the voice on the end of the line said a little more shrilly.
Okay, this is getting just a little bit ridiculous, I thought to myself as I looked down at the phone and saw that the stupid thing wasn’t even on.
“Okay, listen up. This is Calliope Reaper-Jones. I don’t know who you are, or why you’ve bewitched my handheld device, but this is so not funny!”
Without waiting a beat, a low-pitched feminine voice began talking at me like I hadn’t spoken at all.
“We will commence tonight with our first session,” the voice intoned. “It is imperative that you have a pot of licorice tea and two cupcakes—both in carrot cake—from the Magnolia Bakery waiting upon my arrival—”
“What are you talking about—” I started to say, but was overrun by the voice on the other end of the line.
“Thank you and good day.”
“Don’t you hang up, or I’ll—I’ll . . .” I stammered, but it was too late. The voice was gone.
“Crap,” I said under my breath as I dropped the phone from my ear and proceeded to stare down at its dead face. I had no idea what the heck had just happened, but it very much sounded like I was going to have a visitor tonight . . . whether I wanted one or not.