Getting fired as a necromancer and accidentally killing a world-famous rockstar isn't how Sam Alden expects her day to go.
When the world finds out that Blaize Steele is dead, fingers point to his overbearing manager. A stalker fan. An angry ex. But...
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I kill everything I've ever loved, I got a death kiss. I will be the one to mess it up. death wish - LØLØ
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I DIDN'T MEAN to kill a rock star.
But when you're the poster child for Murphy's Law, a normal day can turn deadly at a moment's notice. A terrible day made that a guarantee. The only question was how much blood would be on your hands by the end of it.
My day started with blood. Scuffed palms against concrete, pants torn at the knee, crimson seeping through tattered fabric. The Underworld always reeked of iron and sulfur, but it hit differently when it was your own blood painting the floor of Death's throne room.
Turns out, if you failed to revive Death's favorite politician after years of lies and otherworldly deals crumbled their stone heart, he didn't take kindly to excuses. And when it was your third failed resurrection in a year?
Let's just say his scythe was sharp.
Time in the Underworld was fuzzy, and it felt like years had passed when I woke in the empty parking lot of an abandoned Ohio Costco. Blood's sharp odor coated my nostrils, but my clothes were clean, and my kneecaps were—somehow—intact. I didn't imagine Death let many failed necromancers live after he stripped their legs in exchange for a pink slip.
Why me?
And why couldn't he have taken my kneecaps with him? They didn't work, anyway. Maybe he assumed he was doing me too much kindness by severing joints that were practically held together by string cheese and chewing gum. Maybe leaving me in physical pain that wouldn't heal like an average person's wound was part of my punishment.
I stuffed down the thought. One didn't question Death's decisions. If he let me live, I needed to accept it... even if it felt like a trap.
Waning amber light washed the empty parking lot. It looked just as I'd left it when Death's most obnoxious imp whisked me to the Lincoln Memorial in a nauseating shadow portal. Even my boxy Jeep remained under a bent street lamp. The bulb strobed under the setting sun, illuminating every dent and chip in the custom mint-painted frame.
