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Darynda Jones

Second Grave on the Left

Acknowledgments

Even in my wildest dreams, I never thought I would get an agent like Alexandra Machinist or an editor like Jennifer Enderlin. I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating. I’m not sure what I did to deserve you. Maybe it was that stretch as a volunteer at the local nursing home. Or the time I pulled that kid out of a burning building. No, wait, I never pulled a kid out of a burning building.

’Kay, I’m going to keep working on that. In the meantime, thank you so much to Jen, my spectacular editor, and everyone at St. Martin’s Press and Macmillan. You guys rock so hard.

To Alexandra, my own personal Superwoman, and everyone at the Linda Chester Literary Agency.

To the wonderful Whitney Lee at the Fielding Agency and the super-savvy Josie Freedman at ICM. Thank you guys so very much.

To the super-talented Liz Bemis at Bemis Promotions. Just, wow.

To my very own Charley Davidson, Danielle Tanner.

To my family — you know who you are — and my friends. Thank you for liking me. Or pretending to like me. I appreciate the effort either way.

To the goddesses of LERA and the Ruby Slippered Sisterhood, my other family.

To Bria Quinlan, Gabi Stephens, and Samira Stephan for help with translations.

To Commander Murray Conrad.

And a special thank-you to my readers, especially those readers who stayed up the night before this book was due to give me feedback: Danielle Swopes, Tammy Baumann, and Kit Carson. I totally owe you guys a mocha latte. Or a small island.

Chapter One

“Charley, hurry, wake up. ”

Fingers with pointy nails bit into my shoulders, doing their darnedest to vanquish the fog of sleep I’d been marinating in. They shook me hard enough to cause a small earthquake in Oklahoma. Since I lived in New Mexico, this was a problem.

Judging by the quality and pitch of the intruder’s voice, I was fairly certain the person accosting me was my best friend, Cookie. I let an annoyed sigh slip through my lips, resigning myself to the fact that my life was a series of interruptions and demands. Mostly demands. Probably because I was the only grim reaper this side of Mars, the only portal to the other side the departed could cross through. At least, those who hadn’t crossed right after they died and were stuck on Earth. Which was a freaking lot. Having been born the grim reaper, I couldn’t remember a time when dead people weren’t knocking on my door — metaphorically, as dead people rarely knocked — asking for my assistance with some unfinished business. It amazed me how many of the dearly departed forgot to turn off the stove.

For the most part, those who cross through me simply feel they’ve been on Earth long enough. Enter the reaper. Aka, moi. The departed can see me from anywhere in the world and can cross to the other side through me. I’ve been told I’m like a beacon as bright as a thousand suns, which would suck for a departed with a martini hangover.