Read Online Undead and Unforgiven by MaryJanice Davidson - Free Book Online Page B

Being Seen thing for a while, on Sinclair’s advice
    (“The denizens of Hell should know their new queen, though if any should be bold enough to attempt familiarities with your delectable self, I insist on the privilege of making them suffer for it.”
    â€œAww, you’re so cute. You’re like an undead Fred Flintstone.”)
    and it wasn’t terrible. I strolled around with my hands clasped behind my back, trying to look unconcerned and, I dunno, regal or evil or regally evil and like someone whose delectable self was never to be messed with.
    Most of them were too shy or terrified to talk to me, or even meet my gaze, but I caught a lot of glances out of the corner of my eye, usually from people using the corners of
their
eyes. I ended up in one of Hell’s food courts, stepped up to the Orange Julius counter, and ordered a medium orange. (Anything in an Orange Juliusthat wasn’t orange or Julius wasn’t an Orange Julius. Strawberry Banana Julius just sounds dumb.)
    â€œUm . . . ma’am . . . you must know . . .” The girl behind the counter, who looked like a young lunch lady crossed with the wardrobe from
Flashdance
(leg warmers! baah-ha-ha!), made a vague gesture behind her at the big shiny Julius dispenser. “It’s not going to . . . I mean, it might look like what you ordered, but I wouldn’t drink it.”
    â€œIt’ll work for me,” I said, and she nodded so hard I was afraid she’d brain herself on something. She turned, grabbed a cup and straw, fiddled with the machine, and ta-dah! She handed it to me with a shaking hand, and I took a sip. Excellent. A very good year. “What’s your name?”
    â€œJennifer Palmer?” This while fiddling with her side ponytail. No one should bring attention to a side ponytail.
    â€œWell, thanks, Jennifer.”
    â€œOh!” She was young—late teens, maybe—with bitten nails, a
Frankie Says Relax
T-shirt, acid-washed jeans, and of course a hairnet, required by all who worked the food courts. It wasn’t that Hell cared if hair got in the food. It’s that people detested wearing hairnets. “You’re—you’re welcome, ma’am?”
    â€œCan I ask you something?”
    â€œUm.” She looked around, but suddenly every single person in the food court was busy looking busy and not so much as glancing at either of us. “Sure? I guess?”
    Ugh, I hated the “even though this is a declarative sentence I’m saying it like a question?” thing. But she was already a bit of a nervous wreck, so I let it pass. “Is this your punishment?”
    She blinked. “Yes.”
    â€œWorking a food court for eternity.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œHow long’s it been?” I could have conjured up a clipboard laden with all the pertinent info, but was curiousto hear what she had to say. A clipboard could give me the facts, but not the person behind them.
    â€œUh . . .” Lots of blinking now. I could almost read her mind:
Where is she going with this? Oh fuck, am I in
more
trouble now? I tried to warn her about the Orange Julius!
“Thirty-one years.”
    â€œIf you didn’t have to be here, where would you go?”
    â€œI—” Another glance around, but nope. No help from anywhere. And I wasn’t budging. “I don’t know.”
    â€œWell, think about it.” I sucked up Julius and waited. I was as patient as a mannequin: unmoving, blank faced, and dressed in trendy clothes. Finally . . .
    â€œI guess I’d go home. Tell them I’m sorry, tell them the whole story. My folks are still alive, my sister, and
he
is, too.”
    â€œOh yeah?”
    â€œThe fire was an accident, but they thought it was on purpose.” Definitely warming to her subject, no pun intended. The side ponytail bounced as she gestured. “I couldn’t tell