Never underestimate the power of a woman
on a double espresso
with a mocha latte chaser high.
—T-shirt
Charley Davidson isn’t your everyday, run-of-the-mill grim
reaper. She’s more of a paranormal private eye/grim reaper extraordinaire.
However, she gets sidetracked when the sexy, sultry son of Satan, Reyes Farrow,
moves in next door. To further complicate matters, Reyes is her main suspect in
an arson case. Charley has vowed to stay away from him until she can find out
the truth…but then dead women start appearing in her apartment, one after
another, each lost, confused, and terrified beyond reason. When it becomes
apparent that her own sister, Gemma, is the serial killer’s next target Charley
has no choice but to ask for Reyes’ help. Arsonist or not, he’s the one man
alive who could protect Gemma no matter who or what came at her. But he wants
something in return.Charley. All
of her, body and soul. And to keep her sister safe, it is a price she is willing to
pay.
Charley Davidson is at it again in Fifth Grave Past the
Light, the sexy, suspenseful, and laugh-out-loud funny fifth installment of
the New York Times bestselling series by Darynda Jones.
******** EXCERPT ********
Ask me about
life after death.
—T-shirt often seen on
Charley Davidson,
a grim reaper with questionable
morals
The dead guy at the end of the
bar kept trying to buy me a drink.
Which figured. No one else was even taking a second look and
I’d
dressed to the nines. Or, at the very least, the eight- and-
a-halves.
But the truly disturbing part of my evening was the fact
that my
mark, one Mr. Marvin Tidwell, blond real estate broker and
suspected
adulterer, actually turned down the drink I’d tried to buy
him.
Turned it down!
I felt violated.
I sat at the bar, sipping
a margarita, lamenting the sad turnmy life
had taken. Especially to night. This case was not going as planned.
Maybe I wasn’t Marv’s type. It
happened. But I was oozing interest.
And I wore makeup. And I had
cleavage. Even with all that going for
me,
this investigation was firmly wedged between the cracks of
no and
where. At least I could tell my client, aka Mrs. Marvin Tidwell, that
it
would seem her husband was not cheating on her. Not
randomly,
anyway. The fact that he could’ve been meeting someone in par
tic ular
kept me glued to my barstool.
“C-come here often?”
I looked over at the dead
guy. He’d finally worked up the
courage
to approach and I got a better view of him. I
figured him for the runt
of the litter. He wore round- rimmed glasses and a tattered
baseball
cap that sat backwards on top of muddy brown hair. Add to that
a
faded blue T-shirt and loosely ripped jeans and he could’ve been
a
skater, a computer geek, or a backwoods moonshiner.
His cause of death was not
immediately apparent. No stab wounds
or gaping holes. No missing limbs or tire tracks across his face.
He
didn’t even look like a drug addict, so I couldn’t tell why he’d died
at
such a young age. Taking into account the fact that his baby-
faced
features would make him look younger than he probably was, I
estimated
him to be somewhere around my age when he’d passed.
He stood waiting for an answer.
I thought “Come here often?”
was rhetorical, but okay. Not wanting to be perceived as talking
to
myself in a room full of people, I responded by lifting one
shoulder
in a
halfhearted shrug.
Sadly, I did. Come here often.
This was my dad’s bar, and while I
never set up stings here for fear of someone I knew blowing
my
cover, this just happened to be the very same bar Mr. Tidwell
frequented.
At least if it came to a
knockdown drag- out, I might have
some backup. I knew most of the regulars and all of the
employees.
Dead Guy
glanced toward the kitchen, seeming nervous before he
refocused on me. I glanced that way as well. Saw a door.
“Y-you’re very shiny,” he said,
drawing my attention back to him.
He had a stutter. Few things
were more adorable than a grown
man with boyish features and a stutter. I stirred my margarita
and
pasted on a fake smile. I couldn’t talk to him in a room full of
living,
breathing patrons. Especially when one was named Jessica Guinn,
to
my utter mortification. I hadn’t seen her fiery red
hair since high
school but there she sat, a few seats down from me, surrounded by
a
group of chattering socialites who looked almost as fake as her
boobs.
But that could be my bitterness
rearing its ugly head.
Unfortunately, my forced smile
only encouraged Dead Guy.
“Y-you are. You’re like the s-sun reflecting off the
chrome bumper of
a f-fifty- seven Chevy.”
He
splayed his fingers in the air to demonstrate, and my
heart was
gone. Damn it. He was like all those lost puppies I tried to save as
a
child to no avail because I had an evil stepmother who believed
all
stray dogs were rabid and would try to rip out her jugular. A fact
that
had nothing to do with my desire to bring them into the
house.
“Yeah,” I said under my breath,
doing my best ventriloquist impersonation,
“thanks.”
“I’m D-Duff ,” he said.
“I’m Charley.” I kept my hands
wrapped around my drink lest he
decide we needed to shake. Not many things looked stranger to
the
living world than a grown woman shaking air. You know those
kids
with invisible friends? Well, I was one of those. Only I wasn’t a
kid,
and my friends weren’t invisible. Not to me, anyway. And I could
see
them because I’d been born the grim reaper, which was not as bad
as
it sounded. I was basically a portal to heaven, and whenever
someone
was stuck on Earth, having chosen not to cross over immediately
after
death, they could cross to the other side through me. I was like a
giant
bug light, only what I lured was already dead.
I pulled at my extra- tight
sweater. “Is it just me, or is it really
warm in here?”
His baby blues shot toward the
kitchen again. “Hot is m-more
like it. S-so, I— I couldn’t help but notice you t-tried to buy that
guy
over there a drink.”
I let my fake smile go. Freed it
like a captured bird. If it came back
to me, it would be mine. If not, it never was. “And?”
“You’re b-barking up the wrong
tree with that one.”
Surprised, I put my drink down—
the one I bought myself— and
leaned in a little closer. “He’s gay?”
Duff snorted. “N-no. But he’s
been in here a lot lately. He l-likes
his women a little . . . l-looser.”
“Dude, how much sluttier can I
get?” I indicated my attire with a
sweep of my hand.
“N-no, I mean, well, you’re a
l-little—” He let his gaze travel the
length of me. “—t-tight.”
I gasped. “I look
anal?”
He drew in a deep breath and
tried again. “H-he only hits on
women who are more s-substantial than you.”
Oh, that wasn’t
offensive at all. “I have depth. I’ve read
Proust.
No, wait, that was
Pooh. Winnie- the-
Pooh. My
bad.”
He shifted his non ex is tent
weight, cleared his throat, and tried
again. “More v-voluptuous.”
“I have curves,” I said through
a clenched jaw. “Have you seen
my ass?”
“Heavier!” he blurted
out.
“I weigh— Oh, you mean he likes
bigger women.”
“E-exactly, while I on the other
hand—”
Duff ’s words faded into the
background like elevator music. So
Marv liked big women. A new plan
formed in the darkest, most corrupt
corners of Barbara. My brain.
Cookie, otherwise known as my
receptionist during regular business
hours and my best friend 24/7, was perfect. She was large and
in
charge. Or well, large and kind of bossy. I picked up my cell
phone
and called her.
“This better be good,” she
said.
“It is. I need your
assistance.”
“I’m watching the
first season of Prison Break.”
“Cookie, you’re my
assistant. I need assistance. With a case. You
know those things we take on to make money?”
“Prison. Break. It’s
about these brothers who—”
“I know what Prison Break is.”
“Then have you ever actually
seen these boys? If you had, you
would not expect me to abandon them in their time of need. I
think
there’s a shower scene coming up.”
“Do these brothers sign your
paycheck?”
“No, but technically neither do
you.”
Damn. She was right. It was much
easier to just have her forge my
name.
“I need you to come
flirt with my mark.”
“Oh, okay. I can do
that.”
Nice. The F-word always worked with her. I filled her in and
told
her the deal with Tidwell, then ordered her to hurry
over.
“And dress sexy,” I said right
before hanging up. But I regretted
the sexy part instantly. The last time I told Cookie to dress sexy for
a
much- needed girls’ night out on the town, she wore a lace- up
corset,
fishnet stockings, and a feather boa. She looked
like a dominatrix. I’d
never been the same.
NYTimes and USA Today Bestselling Author Darynda Jones has won numerous awards for her
work, including a prestigious Golden Heart®, a Rebecca, two Hold Medallions, a
RITA ®, and a Daphne du Maurier, and
she has received stellar reviews from dozens of publications including starred
reviews from Publisher’s Weekly, Booklist, and the Library Journal. As a born
storyteller, Darynda grew up
spinning tales of dashing damsels and heroes in distress for any unfortunate
soul who happened by, annoying man and beast alike, and she is ever so grateful
for the opportunity to carry on that tradition. She currently has two series
with St. Martin’s Press: The Charley Davidson Series and the Darklight Trilogy. She lives in the Land of
Enchantment, also known as New Mexico, with her husband of almost 30 years and
two beautiful sons, the Mighty, Mighty Jones Boys. She can be found at www.daryndajones.com.
Links To Author:
Links To Purchase
Books:
********* GIVEAWAY *********
1 Autographed copy of Fifth Grave Past the Light to one lucky
winner.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
USA Today Best-selling author Cynthia Eden has written over
twenty-five novels and novellas. She was named as a 2013 RITA® finalist for her paranormal romance, ANGEL IN CHAINS, and,
in 2011, Cynthia Eden was a RITA finalist for her romantic suspense, DEADLY
FEAR.
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