Titles by MaryJanice Davidson
UNDEAD AND UNWED
UNDEAD AND UNEMPLOYED
UNDEAD AND UNAPPRECIATED
UNDEAD AND UNRETURNABLE
UNDEAD AND UNPOPULAR
UNDEAD AND UNEASY
UNDEAD AND UNWORTHY
UNDEAD AND UNWELCOME
UNDEAD AND UNFINISHED
UNDEAD AND UNDERMINED
UNDEAD AND UNSTABLE
UNDEAD AND UNSURE
UNDEAD AND UNWARY
UNDEAD AND UNFORGIVEN
DERIK’S BANE
WOLF AT THE DOOR
SLEEPING WITH THE FISHES
SWIMMING WITHOUT A NET
FISH OUT OF WATER
Titles by MaryJanice Davidson and Anthony Alongi
JENNIFER SCALES AND THE ANCIENT FURNACE
JENNIFER SCALES AND THE MESSENGER OF LIGHT
THE SILVER MOON ELM: A JENNIFER SCALES NOVEL
SERAPH OF SORROW: A JENNIFER SCALES NOVEL
RISE OF THE POISON MOON: A JENNIFER SCALES NOVEL
EVANGELINA: A JENNIFER SCALES NOVEL
Anthologies
CRAVINGS
(with Laurell K. Hamilton, Rebecca York, Eileen Wilks)
BITE
(with Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, Angela Knight, Vickie Taylor)
KICK ASS
(with Maggie Shayne, Angela Knight, Jacey Ford)
MEN AT WORK
(with Janelle Denison, Nina Bangs)
DEAD AND LOVING IT
SURF’S UP
(with Janelle Denison, Nina Bangs)
MYSTERIA
(with P. C. Cast, Gena Showalter, Susan Grant)
OVER THE MOON
(with Angela Knight, Virginia Kantra, Sunny)
DEMON’S DELIGHT
(with Emma Holly, Vickie Taylor, Catherine Spangler)
DEAD OVER HEELS
MYSTERIA LANE
(with P. C. Cast, Gena Showalter, Susan Grant)
MYSTERIA NIGHTS
(includes Mysteria and Mysteria Lane, with P. C. Cast, Susan Grant, Gena Showalter)
UNDERWATER LOVE
(includes Sleeping with the Fishes, Swimming Without a Net, and Fish out of Water)
DYING FOR YOU
UNDEAD AND UNDERWATER
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This book is an original publication of Penguin Random House LLC.
Copyright © 2015 by MaryJanice Davidson.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Davidson, MaryJanice
Undead and unforgiven / MaryJanice Davidson.—First edition.
p. cm. — (Undead/Queen Betsy ; 14)
ISBN 978-0-425-28293-9 (hardcover)
1. Taylor, Betsy (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Sinclair, Eric (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Vampires—Fiction. 4. Hell—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3604.A949U5254 2015
813'.6—dc23
2015025111
First edition: October 2015
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.
Version_1
For my son, William, who came up with the idea that Hell isn’t eternal punishment from which there is no parole. “It’s more like jail. Or detention! You can get out, but you have to behave.”
And for my daughter, Christina, who grew up despite direct orders to the contrary. Sure, she’s a legal adult and can function quite well on her own even though in my mind she turned five last week, but I’m not old, dammit!
Contents
Titles by MaryJanice Davidson
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Epigraph
PROLOGUE: DEATH, LIFE, RITZ CRACKERS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
INTERLUDE: BETSY’S ERRAND TO HELL
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
Author’s Note
Cow Town in Hastings, Minnesota, is a thing. It’s named for a part of the town that was once all farmland and cow paths. We were lucky enough to live there for a few years when our children were small. Our first night in the new house we went to sleep with the gentle lowing of bovines in the background, which aggravated my city-boy husband beyond belief. “Shut up! Damned cows!” I laughed until I snored.
I have nothing against Fairview Ridges Hospital in Burnsville, Minnesota; my son was born there! It’s one of the few hospitals in the Twin Cities area I’m familiar with, so I use it whenever a character needs to be hospitalized. It’s why Marc worked there, Jessica had cancer there, the Antichrist volunteered there, and Tim Andersson (you’ll meet him in the prologue) died there. Again: great place; they took excellent care of me, and also my baby, who was so fat and sweet tempered, the resident used to lug him around with her on rounds. (This was fine with me: More sleep, please! Also more pudding. Thank you.)
The midnight blue Armani suit Tina wears to the meeting in Hell costs $1,250 and it is glorious.
Unlike Marc, I don’t have anything against Kr
isten Stewart. It’s just I really, really liked Ravenna, the wicked queen, from Snow White and the Huntsman. I had little to no interest in what Snow White was doing, but couldn’t look away from the queen. (Also, I knew how it would end, so there was no need to root for Snow Stewart.)
Cinnamon Churros vodka is a thing. Thanks, Smirnoff!
Betsy is not alone in thinking The Lego Movie sucked. It did. Terrible. I’ve said it before, when the monstrosity known as the Transformers franchise took over, and I’m saying it again now: never see movies based on toys or games. Lego, Transformers, G.I. Joe, Battleship, Ouija, Barbie, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles . . . no. Stop the madness. There is one—one—exception: the Toy Story franchise. Hey, even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
Forepaugh’s is a real restaurant in St. Paul and several people are convinced it’s haunted. The food is divine, though the story behind the resident ghost is sad: she killed herself after she found out she was pregnant by her married boss. Try the deconstructed banana cream pie.
The Griggs Mansion, just up the street from Betsy’s mansion, is considered to be the most haunted house in St. Paul. It has creeped any number of people out, including skeptical journalists, and I have to say, the pattern of owners has been pretty interesting. They move in, redo the place, then move out within a year or two. The last owners had to keep dropping the price to unload the thing (in 2012), because potential buyers were horrified of the thought of spending a single night there, never mind living there for a decade or so.
Sinclair’s buddy Lawrence Taliaferro was a legit fella and pretty cool, too. Born in 1794, he was an army officer from Virginia who served as an Indian officer at Fort Snelling, Minnesota, and had an interesting part to play in the Dred Scott slavery legal battle some years later.
His job was to mediate between the traders, the Native Americans, and the United States. Shockingly, all three entities were seldom on the same page, but he worked hard and did his best to look out for everyone’s best interests.
The Native Americans called him “No-Sugar-in-Your-Mouth,” a reference to how he dealt fairly with them and never made a promise he couldn’t keep. He had an almost impossible job but didn’t shirk, and for a while things were pretty peaceful. Toward the end of his time there, he helped draft the 1837 treaty, negotiating what he felt would be fair terms for all involved. The U.S. government, however, decided “signed treaty” meant “thing we don’t actually have to do” and failed to hold up their end. The Native Americans were ruined, Taliaferro even more disillusioned (like that was possible), and he resigned in disgust not long after.
He probably thought, once away from Fort Snelling, that life would settle down, but that’s because he had no idea who Dred Scott was. A Virginian by birth, Taliaferro owned a slave named Harriet Robinson, who was in love with another slave, Dred Scott. Not only did he give them permission to marry, he officiated. (He was a justice of the peace in the territories.) They’re in love, that’s great, he probably thought. What’s the worst that can happen? It certainly won’t lead to a landmark Supreme Court decision that hastens the Civil War, right?
Yeah, so. That happened. Dred Scott, as we know, lost before the Supreme Court, but part of the reason he fought for his freedom in the first place was because Taliaferro had married him to a (later) freed black woman in a free state.
Taliaferro kind of disappears from the history books after that, which I found intriguing. And so Sinclair’s bestie was born! You can learn all about him and other fascinating/sad/amazing bits of Minnesota history at Fort Snelling, which still stands today, and welcomes tourists.
Cutco knives are wicked sharp! My daughter sold them for about a year and I have to say, they’re terrific. Betsy is right to be impressed at how much easier it is to decapitate someone with the right tool.
Finally, betrayal isn’t cool, even if you’re the Antichrist and think you’re totally justified.
Jesus lived with us for like a week, what else do you need?
FAMILY GUY ON ATHEISM
Son of Perdition. Little Horn. Most unclean!
I do miss the old names.
GABRIEL AND SATAN, CONSTANTINE
I am so smart! I am so smart! S-m-r-t! I mean s-m-a-r-t!
HOMER, THE SIMPSONS
Hit me with it! Just give it to me straight. I came a long way just to see you, Mary. The least you can do is level with me. What are my chances?
Not good.
You mean, not good like one out of a hundred?
I’d say more like one out of a million.
So you’re telling me there’s a chance. Yeah!
LLOYD AND MARY, DUMB AND DUMBER
Get you gone from here. Leave Delain behind, now and forever. You are cast out. Get you gone.
PETER, HIGH KING OF DELAIN, THE EYES OF THE DRAGON, BY STEPHEN KING
PROLOGUE
DEATH, LIFE, RITZ CRACKERS
Dying is taking forever.
This shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. Everything in Tim Andersson’s life had taken forever. He’d been born three weeks late. Went through the fourth grade twice, needed six years to get his fine arts degree. Took the driver’s license exam four times. Had to ask the DMV three times to change his name from Anderson to Andersson. Ditto his social security card and passport, the latter proving a waste of time as the trip to Scotland fell through at the last minute because of his shingles flare-up.
The diagnosis—lung cancer at age forty-nine—had been met with dull, hurt surprise. “I don’t smoke.”
“Yes, that happens sometimes.”
“I’ve never smoked.”
“Yes, I understand. It would seem from your family history you’re genetically predisposed to the condition. That and your exposure to asbestos for several years, as well as secondhand smoke—”
“Yeah, I watched my parents and my grandpa die of lung cancer.” In an asbestos-ridden house, apparently. Shouldn’t have put off moving out of his folks’ place for so long. “Which is why I’ve never smoked.” His only addiction was to Ritz crackers, and always had been. Never saltines. Ritz, with spray cheese (cheddar and bacon flavored), chased with sweet iced tea. God, he could use some now. He’d gobble a whole sleeve of crackers right now and shoot the cheese straight into his mouth.
“I’m very sorry.”
Tim took a deep breath
(better enjoy doing that while you can)
and asked, “My options?”
“Few,” the doctor replied with calm, kind sympathy. “But that’s not to say there’s no hope. Unfortunately, it’s metastasized into your—”
Tim cut him off. He had nothing against the oncologist, who was only doing his job. Tim had gone to the ER two years before with a nagging cough and shortness of breath. He wouldn’t have gone at all, but a coworker saw what he coughed up into the bathroom sink and that was that. The ER doc, a nice young fellow with bright green eyes named
(odd that you remember him so clearly)
Dr. Spangler, told him what he suspected and had gotten him a referral on the spot. “There’s any one of a number of things it could be. Best to get a diagnosis and be sure, right? And sooner rather than later. Right?”
“Right,” Tim had lied, and then had promptly put it off for years. Right around then the offending cough had cleared up, the coworker had been soothed by Tim’s lie
(“Saw a doctor, he said I’m fine.”)
and that had been that.
Until now.
“Story of my life,” he muttered to the empty room. As if it knew its cover had been blown, the cancer had picked up speed the day he’d gotten the diagnosis. So now here he was, twenty-two months later, coughing out his last breaths at Fairview Ridges in Burnsville. Burnsville! (Nothing against the pleasant Minnesota suburb; it was just, for some reason he always thought he’d die in Apple Valley, another pleasa
nt Minnesota suburb.)
No family, not anymore. A few friends from work, but mostly Tim kept to himself. Making and then cultivating friendships took too much time and energy, and there were Ritz triple-decker sandwiches to stack and devour. Everything took too long. Including this: his death. The doctors had assured him they would control the pain and had been as good as their word. He had refused chemo, refused everything. They were going to move him to a hospice by the end of the week, per the instructions of his HMO. “But until then,” his oncologist assured him, “we’ll take good care of you.”
“Eh. As it is, it’ll take too long.”
“What will?”
“Everything. The paperwork, the transfer. Dying. All of it. I’m slow at everything. Even this.”
And he was right! And as was often the case, there was zero comfort in being right. Still, he at least had the knowledge that—
Wait.
What?
The room was getting darker. And smaller, and quieter. Which was impossible; it was noon on a Saturday, visiting hours were in full swing, his roommate was in the bathroom humming “Irreplaceable” while shaving and getting ready to go home, and the sun was shining. Dammit, he was missing a beautiful late-winter day in Minnesota. Good late winter, the kind with the promise of blooming flowers and green grass, not the mud and unearthed-garbage kind of winter. So why was everything . . . ?
Oh.
Oh.
This was it! He was dying, finally, and it was exactly as the movies had portrayed: everything was going dark and quiet. It wasn’t even scary. Thinking about it had been scarier than experiencing it. He supposed he should be
* * *
grateful.
“Hi, I’m Betsy, welcome to Hell.”
He blinked and looked around. He knew this place. He’d been there before, reluctantly. It was—
“Did you say welcome to Hell?”
The girl—woman, he supposed, she was probably in her twenties, and they didn’t like that, being called girls—nodded. “Yep.”
Only death could be both surreal and familiar at the same time. “Hell is the Mall of America?”
“Yep. Sorry.” She shrugged at him. “It was all I could think of.”