Dead Sexy



The Garnet Lacey Series

Book II



Tate Hallaway



For Shawn, as always

Acknowledgments

Thanks as always to my brilliant and insightful editor, Anne Sowards, and to my supportive and hardworking agent, Martha Millard. My writers group, the Wyrdsmiths, must be thanked for keeping me on track; also a shout-out to Ms. Ember for making the sex "less creepy" and to Naomi Kritzer for thoughts on polyamory. Last minute readers Sean M. Murphy and Shawn Rounds have my eternal gratitude.

1

Aries

Who knew there were so many dead things In Madison, Wisconsin?

As I peeked over the top of the tarot card display, I saw a zombie standing at the register holding a copy ofThe Complete Idiot's Guide to Voodoo .

I struggled to not smack my forehead against the bookcase in frustration. Given how my day started, a zombie customer was just the icing on an already screwed-up day. I'd spent the predawn hours dealing with the fact that I had one too many men in my life, and neither of them was alive. Sebastian, my current vampire lover, dropped me off at my apartment around five a.m. I had to get into work early today, and, of all stupid things, I'd managed to forget my store keys at home. This would have been only minor on the hassle scale, except that I happened to notice Parrish-my vampire ex-lover, who Sebastian wasn't supposed to know was still alive, much less in town, even much more less living in my basement-skulking around the hedges of my backyard, obviously wanting to talk.

Sebastian, of course, had wanted to come in, help me unload my bike from his trunk, steal several more kisses, and all sorts of deliciously gentlemanlike things that were completely the opposite of what I needed if I was going to find out what the hell Parrish wanted so badly that he would risk exposing his presence to Sebastian. I ended up handing Sebastian some lame lie about wanting time to decompress before work, which I could instantly tell he didn't buy, but he was too well mannered to argue. After all the contorting I did in order to talk to Parrish, I found out all he wanted was to cop a snuggle himself before going off to bed. Worse, when I fended Parrish off with just a hug, he smelled like cheap sex and booze, and I swore the scent still clung to me despite a very hot shower. The whole thing had put me in a foul mood. I'd already mis-shelved several books and managed to knock over and break one very expensive blown-glass chalice.

Zombies just added to the suckiness of the day.

To the untrained eye, I'm sure the zombie looked like your average University of Wisconsin hockey jock riding a wicked morning after. Glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, his German-farmboy blond hair hung in wilted clumps across his broad forehead. His jersey seemed threadbare and slept in, and his jeans had unidentifiable sludge ground into the knees and where the cuffs brushed the floor. All fairly unremarkable, really, unless you noticed the blackened toenails on bare feet and the slight grayness of his skin.

But I could smell the grave dust from two aisles away.

This poor boy had partied a little too hearty one night and woken up dead. Well, mostly dead, drugged,and possessed.

As somebody's slave.

Which begged the question-what was an active voodoo sorcerer doing in Madison, Wisconsin?

Granted, Madison is an exceptional place to live, especially if you are out of step with the ordinary. Despite the fact that cornfields and cow pastures are less than twenty minutes away from the center of town, the politics lean toward the frighteningly left. Madison is home to the Great Midwestern Marijuana Festival and birthplace of the satirical newspaperThe Onion , for Goddess's sake.

Thanks to all the students at UW, few people ever look at me funny when I walk down the street in full Goth mode. Piercings and tattoos are commonplace along State Street. You'd be more likely to get gawked at if you strolled along in a business suit, but, then again, given that the capitol building is just up the road, maybe not.

The thing was, Madison is so accepting-so, well, liberal-that black magic really doesn't jive with the shade-grown, fair-trade, bicycle-delivered coffee-drinking crowd. Slavery is really not okay, you dig? And zombies are slaves to their voodoo masters, no question about it.

Plus I had to wonder what good was a jock zombie? Did he still go to classes? Had his grade point average slipped? Or did his professors just write him off as a slacker boy gone bad? The zombie's blunt fingers dragged slowly along the titles on the bookshelf. When I noticed the spittle hanging from his lower lip, I felt a pang of pity.