The nauseating ammonia smell of squid flora is always the first thing I notice upon waking. Some days it’s faint, but today the wind brings the acrid smell right into my riverside hidey-hole. I peek out at the wreckage of the squid ship—dark, twisted metal covering a half mile of riverfront.
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It’s quite odd, realizing you’re dead.
Strangely, I didn’t know immediately. My epiphany happened last Derby, when I kissed my now-boyfriend, Reynolds, for the first time. He was a stranger then, but I realized when our lips met he had more substance. He was tangible; I was vaporous fluff.
And Eliza Booker is not vaporous or fluffy.
Somewhere on the edge of town, just where civilization meets wilderness, an unassuming building stands off the side of the road surrounded by the smallest of gardens. It seems to be in its own world, apart from everything and everyone else, so most people leave it alone, driving by without a second glance.
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Judy Suarez velcroed her orthopedic sneakers and gripped her SIG Sauer. “Of all the days.”
A shotgun blast thundered. Dust cascaded from the bingo hall’s ceiling as the report rattled through my bones. I scrambled beneath the table, hands over my head, mouth dry, heart pummeling my ribcage like a boxer punching a slab of meat.
“It’s so cute!” Gloria cooed. She bent over the tiny, growling demon.
“That’s not a puppy, Gloria. You can’t keep it.” I glared at the ugly creature cowering behind my backyard shed. “Rip it apart like a good werewolf and send it back to Hell.” She ignored me. Crouching next to it, she extended her hand…
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