BETTER OFF DEAD
Book 1 of the Lily Harper series
HP MALLORY
Also by HP Mallory:
THE JOLIE WILKINS SERIES:
Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble
Toil and Trouble
Be Witched (Novella
Witchful Thinking
The Witch Is Back
Something Witchy This Way Comes
Stay Tuned For The Jolie Wilkins Spinoff Series!
THE DULCIE O’NEIL SERIES:
To Kill A Warlock
A Tale Of Two Goblins
Great Hexpectations
Wuthering Frights
Malice In Wonderland
For Whom The Spell Tolls
THE LILY HARPER SERIES:
Better Off Dead
BETTER OFF DEAD
by
H.P. Mallory
Copyright © 2013 by H.P. Mallory
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
For One Of My Readers, Amanda Mulkey:
Your courage is awe inspiring.
I’m so grateful my books brought you into my life.
Much love,
HP
Acknowledgements:
To my mother: thank you for everything.
To husband: thank you for always being there for me.
To my son: happiness truly is being your mom.
To Sherita Eaton: Thank you so much for entering my “Become a character in my next book” contest. I hope you enjoy seeing yourself in print!
To my beta readers: Evie Amaro and the Eaton sisters: Thank you so much for all your help!
To my editor, Teri, at www.editingfairy.com: thank you for an excellent job, as always.
“Midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark, For the straight foreward pathway had been lost.”
– Dante’s Inferno
ONE
The rain pelted the windshield relentlessly. Drops like little daggers assaulted the glass, only to be swept away by the frantic motion of the wipers. The scenery outside my window melted into dripping blobs of color through a screen of gray. I took my foot off the accelerator and slowed to forty miles an hour, focusing on the blurry yellow lines in the road.
Lightning stabbed the gray skies. A roar of thunder followed and the rain came down heavier, as if having been reprimanded for not falling hard enough.
“This rain is gonna keep on comin’, folks,” the radio meteorologist announced. Annoyed, I changed the station and resettled myself into my seat to the sound of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons, Summer.” Ha, Summer …
The rain morphed into hail. The visibility was slightly better, but now I was under a barrage of machine-gunned ice. I took a deep breath and tried to imagine myself on a sunny beach, sipping a strawberry margarita with a well-endowed man wearing nothing but a banana hammock and a smile.
In reality, I was as far from a cocktail on a sunny beach with Sven, the lust god, as possible. Nope, I was trapped in Colorado Springs in the middle of winter. If that weren’t bad enough, I was late to work. To make matters worse? Today was not only my yearly review but I also had to give a presentation to the CEO, defending my decision to move forward with a risky and expensive marketing campaign. So, yes, being late didn’t exactly figure into my plans.
With a sigh, I turned on my seat heater and tried to enact the presentation in my head, tried to remember the slides from my PowerPoint and each of the topics I needed to broach. I held my chin up high and cleared my throat, reminding myself to look the CEO and the board of directors in the eyes and not to say “um.”
“Choc-o-late cake,” I said out loud, opening my mouth wide and then bringing my teeth together again in an exaggerated way. “Choc-o-late cake.” It was a good way to warm up my voice and to remind myself to pronounce every syllable of every word. And, perhaps the most important point to keep in mind—not to rush.
This whole being late thing wasn’t exactly good timing, considering I was going to ask for a raise. With my heart rate increasing, I remembered the words of Jack Canfield, one of the many motivational speakers whose advice I followed like the Bible.
“῾When you’ve figured out what you want to ask for,’ Lily, ‘do it with certainty, boldness and confidence,’” I quoted, taking a deep breath and holding it for a count of three before I released it for another count of three. “Certainty, boldness and confidence,” I repeated to myself. “Choc-o-late cake.”
Feeling my heart rate decreasing, I focused on counting the stacks of chicken coops in the truck ahead of me—five up and four across. Each coop was maybe a foot by a foot, barely enough room for the chickens to breathe. White feathers decorated the wire and contrasted against the bright blue of a plastic tarp that covered the top layer of coops. The tarp was held in place by a brown rope that wove in and around the coops like spaghetti. I couldn’t help but feel guilty about the chicken salad sandwich currently residing in my lunch sack but then I remembered I had more important things to think about.
“Choc-o-late cake.”
The truck’s brake lights suddenly flashed red. The chicken coops rattled against one another as the truck lurched to a stop. A vindictive gust of wind caught the edge of the blue tarp and tore it halfway off the coops. As if heading for certain slaughter wasn’t bad enough, the chickens now had to freeze en route. My concern for the birds was suddenly interrupted by another flash of the truck’s brake lights.
Then I heard the sound of my cell phone ringing from my purse, which happened to be behind my seat. I reached behind myself, while still trying to pay attention to the road, and felt around for my purse. I only ended up ramming my hand into the cardboard box which held my velvet and brocade gown. The dress had taken me two months to make and was as historically accurate to the gothic period of the middle ages as was possible.
I finally reached my purse and then fingered my cell phone, pulling it out as I noticed Miranda’s name on the caller ID.
“Hi,” I said.
“I’m just calling to make sure you didn’t forget your dress,” Miranda said in her high pitch, nasally voice which sounded like a five-year-old with a cold.
“Forget it?” I scoffed, shaking my head at the very idea. “Are you kidding? This is only one of the most important evenings of our lives!” Yes, tonight would mark the night that, if successful, Miranda and I would be allowed to move up the hierarchical chain of our medieval reenactment club. We’d started as lowly peasants and had worked our way up to the merchant class and now we sought to be allowed entrance into the world of the knights.
“Can you imagine finally being able to enter the class of the knights?” Miranda continued. Even though I obviously couldn’t see her, I could just imagine her pushing her Coke-bottle glasses back up to the bridge of her nose as she gazed longingly at the empire-waisted, fur trimmed gown (also historically accurate!) that I’d made for her birthday present.
&nbs
p; “Yeah, instead of burlap, we can wear silk!” I chirped as I nodded and thought about how expensive it was going to be to costume ourselves if we actually did get admitted into the class of the knights.
“And maybe Albert will finally want to talk to me,” Miranda continued, again in that dreamy voice.
I didn’t think becoming a knight’s lady would make Albert any more likely to talk to Miranda, but I didn’t say anything. If the truth be told, Albert was far more interested in the knights than he ever was in their ladies.
“Okay, Miranda, I gotta go. I’m almost at work,” I said and then heard the beep on the other line which meant someone else was trying to call me. I pulled the phone away from my ear and after quickly glancing at the road, I tried to answer my other call. That was when I heard the sound of brakes screeching.
I felt like I was swimming through the images that met me next—my phone landing on my lap as I dropped it, my hands gripping the wheel until my knuckles turned white, the pull of the car skidding on the slick asphalt, and the tail end of the truck in front of me, up close and personal. I braced myself for the inevitable impact.
Even though I had my seatbelt on, the jolt was immense. I was suddenly thrown forward only to be wrenched backwards again, as if by the invisible hands of some monstrous Titan. Tiny threads of anguish weaved up my spine until they became an aching symphony that spanned the back of my neck.
The sound of my windshield shattering pulled my thoughts from the pain. I opened my right eye—since the left appeared to be sealed shut—to find my face buried against the steering wheel.
I couldn’t feel anything. The searing pain in my neck was soon a fading memory and nothing but the void of numbness reigned over the rest of my body. As if someone had turned on a switch in my ears, a sudden screeching met me like an enemy. The more I listened, the louder it got—a high-pitched wailing. It took me a second to realize it was the horn of my car.
My vision grew cloudy as I focused on the white of the feathers that danced through the air like winter fairies, only to land against the shattered windshield and drown in a deluge of red. Sunlight suddenly filtered through the car until it was so bright, I had to close my good eye.
And then there was nothing at all.
***
“Number three million, seven hundred fifty thousand forty-five.”
I shook my head as I opened my eyes, blinking a few times as the scratchy voice droned in my ears. Not knowing where I was, or what was happening, I glanced around nervously, absorbing the nondescript beige of the walls. Plastic, multicolored chairs littered the room like discarded toys. What seemed like hundreds of people dotted the landscape of chairs in the stadium-sized room. Next to me, though, was only an old man. Glancing at me, he frowned. I fixed my attention on the snarly looking employees trapped inside multiple rows of cubicles. Choosing not to focus on them, I honed in on an electric board above me that read: Number 3,750,045.
The fluorescent green of the board flashed and twittered as if it had just zapped an unfortunate insect. I shook my head again, hoping to remember how the heck I’d gotten here. My last memory was in my car, driving in the rain as I chatted with Miranda. Then there was that truck with all the chickens. An accident—I’d gotten into an accident. After that, my thoughts blurred into each other. But nothing could explain why I was suddenly at the DMV.
Maybe I was dreaming. And it just happened to be the most lucid, real dream I’d ever had and the only time I’d ever realized I was dreaming while dreaming. Hey, stranger things have happened, right?
I glanced around again, taking in the low ceiling. There weren’t any windows in the dreary room. Instead, posters with vibrant colors decorated the walls, looking like circus banners. The one closest to me read: Smoking kills. A picture of a skeleton in cowboy gear, atop an Appaloosa further emphasized the point. Someone had scribbled “ha ha” in the lower corner.
“Three million, seven hundred fifty thousand forty-five!”
Turning toward the voice, I realized it belonged to an old woman with orange hair, and 1950’s-style rhinestone glasses on a string. A line of twelve or so porcelain cat statues, playing various instruments, decorated the ledge of her cubicle. What was it about old women and cats?
The cat lady scanned the room, peering over the ridiculous glasses and tapping her outlandishly long, red fingernails against the ledge. Her mouth was so tight, it swallowed her lips. As her narrowed gaze met mine, I flushed and averted my eyes to my lap, where I noticed a white piece of paper clutched in my right hand. I stared at the black numbers before the realization dawned on me.
Three million, seven hundred fifty thousand forty-five. She was calling my number! Without hesitation, I jumped up.
“That’s me!” I announced, feeling embarrassed as the old man glared at me. “Sorry.”
“Come on then,” the woman interrupted. “I don’t have all day.”
Approaching her desk, I thought this dream couldn’t get much weirder—I mean, I was number three million or something and yet there were only a few hundred people in the room? I handed the woman my ticket. She scowled at me, her scarlet lips so raw and wet that her mouth looked like a piece of talking sushi. She rolled the ticket into a little ball and flung it behind her. It landed squarely in her wastebasket, vanishing amid a sea of other white, scrunched paper balls.
“Name?” she asked as she worked a huge wad of pink gum between her clicking jaws.
“Um, Lily,” I said with a pause, feigning interest in a cat playing a violin. It wore an obscene smile and appeared to be dancing, one chubby little leg lifted in the semblance of a jig. I touched the cold statue and ran the pad of my index finger along the ridges of his fur. I was beginning to think this might not be a dream, because I could clearly touch and feel things. But if this weren’t a dream, how did I get here? It was like I’d just popped up out of nowhere.
“Last name?”
I faced the woman again. “Um, Harper.”
The woman simply nodded, continuing to chomp on her gum like a cow chewing its cud. “Harper … Harper … Harper,” she said as she stared at the computer screen in front of her.
“Um, could you, uh, tell me why I’m here?” My voice sounded weak and thin. I had to remind myself that I was the master of my own destiny and needed to act like it. And that was when I remembered my presentation. A feeling of complete panic overwhelmed me as I searched the wall for a clock so I could figure out how much time remained before I was due to sway a panel of mostly unenlightened penny-pinchers on why we needed to invest nearly a quarter of a million in advertising. “What time is it?” I demanded.
“Time?” the woman repeated and then frowned at me. “Not my concern.”
I felt my eyebrows knot in the middle as I glanced behind me, wondering if there was a clock to be found anywhere. The blank of the walls was answer enough. I faced forward again, now more nervous than before and still at a complete loss as to where I was or why. “Um, what am I doing here?” I repeated, not meaning to sound so … stupid.
The woman’s wrinkled mouth stretched into a smile, which looked even scarier than all the grimaces she’d given me earlier. She turned to the computer and typed something, her talon-like fingernails covering the keyboard with exaggerated flourishes. She hit “enter” and turned the screen to face me.
“You’re here because you’re dead.”
“What?” It was all I could say as I felt the bottom of my stomach give way, my figurative guts spilling all over my feet. “You’re joking.”
She wasn’t laughing though. Instead, she sighed like I was taking up too much of her time. She flicked her computer screen with the long, scarlet fingernail of her index finger. The tap against the screen reverberated through my head like the blade of a dull axe.
“Watch.”
With my heart pounding in my chest, I glanced at the screen, and saw what looked like the opening of a low-budget film. Rain spattered the camera lens, making it difficult to decipher
the scene beyond. One thing I could make out was the bumper-to-bumper traffic. It appeared to be a traffic cam in real time.
“I don’t know what this has to do …”
She chomped louder, her jaw clicking with the effort, sounding like it was mere seconds from breaking. “Just watch it.”
I crossed my arms against my flat chest and stared at the screen again. An old, Chevy truck came rumbling down the freeway, stopping and starting as the traffic dictated. The camera angle panned toward the back of the truck. I recognized the load of chicken coops piled atop one another. Like déjà vu, the camera lens zoomed in on the blue tarp covering the chickens. It was just a matter of time before the wind would yank the tarp up and over the coops, leaving the chickens exposed to the elements.
Realization stirred in my gut like acid reflux. I dropped my arms and leaned closer to the screen, still wishing this was a dream, but somehow knowing it wasn’t. The camera was now leaving the rear of the truck and it started panning behind the truck, to a white Volvo S40. My white Volvo.
I braced myself against the idea that this could be happening—that I was about to see my car accident. Who the heck was filming? And moreover, where in the heck were they? This looked like it’d been filmed by more than one cameraman, with multiple angles, impossible for just one photographer.
I heard the sound of wheels squealing, knowing only too well what would happen next. I forced my attention back to the strange woman who was now curling her hair around her index finger, making the Cheeto-colored lock look edible.
“So someone videotaped my accident, what does that have to do with why I’m here?” I asked in an unsteady voice, afraid for her answer. “And you should also know that I’m incredibly late to work and I’m due to give a presentation not only to the CEO but also the board of directors.”
She shook her head. “You really don’t get it, do you?”