Back From the Undead (38 page)

I take a step inside. My nerves are screaming at me to just turn around and leave, but some other part of my brain has taken over; I find myself checking the edges of the door, looking down for footprints, even glancing toward the ceiling at the cracked and dirty light fixture. My right hand keeps drifting toward my left shoulder, like I’m going to pull something out of a breast pocket.

No, not a pocket. A holster.

“Cut it out, Jace,” I mutter. “You read too many police procedurals.” I don’t even own a gun, let alone a holster.

But apparently deep down inside I’m convinced I have cop DNA, because instead of leaving and closing the door behind me—or calling a real police officer—I move further down the hallway.

There’s another door ajar at the end of the corridor.

When I peer through it, I see stairs leading down. Basement, of course. No trail of blood on the steps, but that would be overkill. Creepy old house, door open, basement. I’d have to be some kind of idiot to go down there, right?

I throw myself on the mercy of the court. About the only excuse I have is possible mental illness, which in retrospect is probably closer to an explanation than an excuse. Also convenient and less insulting.

Down I go. The staircase is well-lit and doesn’t creak. The stairs go down and end at another door, which is kind of strange. This one looks like it was forged out of cast iron about two hundred years ago, and it’s open, too. There’s an orangey, flickering light coming from inside; I peer cautiously into the room.

I don’t know what I expect to see, but it isn’t this.

First impressions: big room, lots of black draperies hanging down. More candles than the bedroom of a teenage goth girl, all of them lit. Lots of cushions on the floor, but no other furniture except for a big-ass table at the far end of the room.

No, not a table. An altar.

That’s what draws my attention and focuses it. Because the altar—a big chunk of square granite that looks as if it was carved right out of the bedrock—has a body on it. Male, dressed in a long black robe, with a face only an undertaker could love.

Old Man Longinus.

I don’t hesitate. I walk forward and inspect the body. He’s got a long, presumably ceremonial dagger sticking out of his chest, and no pulse. I don’t touch anything else, not at first. Instead, I look around and try to figure out what happened.

That’s when I notice the photos.

There are seven in all, and from the way three are positioned on the altar it looks as if Longinus was placing them in preparation for some sort of ritual when he was attacked. There are two more on the floor. I find the last one trapped beneath the body, the corner barely visible.

They’re all of me.

Me in different emotional states—gesticulating in anger, weeping, laughing, even one where I seem to be having an orgasm.

“Double. You. Tee.
Eff
,” I say.

I don’t study the pics for long. They go in my pocket.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from police work research, it’s that the person who discovers the body is often the perpetrator. That, plus me in house for no good reason plus pictures plus history of medical-grade wackiness equals Jace in jail. No way. I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid.

Okay, I may be crazy
and
stupid, but at least I try to alternate. And right now, I’m going to go with the crazy option and try to puzzle out what the hell went on here.

I look around. Candles are all really low—they’ve been burning for hours, which tells me the killer is long gone. No signs of a break-in or a struggle, so Longinus probably knew the person who murdered him. Whoever did it was fast, strong, and confident—the knife’s buried up to the hilt, and looks like it punched right through the breastbone. You don’t kill someone with a single thrust like that, from the front, unless you know exactly what you’re doing. Maybe you’ve even done it before.

The body isn’t restrained, and one leg is dangling off the side. Not a ritual posture, in other words. He might have been shoved backward and off his feet before the killing blow was delivered.

So he let someone in, someone he wasn’t afraid of. He was in the middle of preparing his altar, and then he was abruptly attacked and killed, possibly with a weapon of opportunity.

The cushions bother me.

You don’t just scatter a few throw pillows around a room like this to brighten it up. The pillows are there for people to sit—or, more likely, kneel—on while something vile and perverse happens on that altar.

The evidence seems conclusive. Longinus was running a sex club.

Why they picked me as their fetish object isn’t clear, but maybe it was only Longinus himself who was fixated on me. I go searching for corroborating evidence, convinced I’ll find a chest full of sex toys and illegal porn hidden behind one of the black draperies.

Not so much.

Also by DD Barant

Better Off Undead

Killing Rocks

Dying Bites

Death Blows

PRAISE FOR DD BARANT AND THE BLOODHOUND FILES

“Snappy writing, a page-turning story, and fresh world-building make
Dying Bites
a satisfying meal of a book.”

—Kelley Armstrong,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Men of the Otherworld
and
The Awakening

“
Dying Bites
is wacky, unpredictable, fresh, and amazing. I would kill to write as well as DD Barant. Seriously.”

—Nancy Holder, author of
Pretty Little Devils

“This engrossing debut adds another captivating protagonist to the urban fantasy ranks … Barant’s well-developed world offers intriguing enhancements to mythology and history. Jace is remarkable, strong-willed, and smart, and she sets an unstoppable pace. Look for the Bloodhound Files to go far.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“A heroine with plenty of guts, moxie, and a sense of the absurd. [A] fresh and original take on urban fantasy … Huge kudos to Barant for spicing things up with a story that expertly integrates detective work, kick-butt action, and a wacky sense of humor. Make sure you get in early on the outstanding new Bloodhound Files series.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“DD Barant builds a strong world and fills it with fascinating characters that will delight and entertain.
Dying Bites
is a well-written urban fantasy with a gripping plot and a heroine who is quite believable with her very human flaws. I’m looking forward to seeing more in this captivating world.”

—
Darque Reviews
(starred read)

“Five stars. An exciting new series. It has humor, mystery, and adventure. A great book!”

—Affair de Coeur

“Barant does an excellent job introducing a whole new world where vampires make up the majority of the population … quick and engrossing … a great new series.”

—
Romance Reader

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DD Barant lives in Vancouver, BC, and loves monsters, chocolate, animals, reading, comics and lying naked on the beach, while hating bullies, narrow-minded people, Sea Urchin Sushi, and gluten. Awful, terrible gluten.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

BACK FROM THE UNDEAD

Copyright © 2012 by DD Barant.

Excerpt from
Undead to the World
copyright © 2012 by DD Barant.

All rights reserved.

For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

www.stmartins.com

eISBN: 9781466801431

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / April 2012

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.