Two Weeks' Notice: A Revivalist Novel
Rachel Caine
PRAISE FOR
THE REVIVALIST SERIES
WORKING STIFF
“One hell of a first novel in what looks to be a must-buy urban fantasy series. From [a] world-building and plotting perspective, Working Stiff completely rocks.”
—The Book Smugglers
“Caine’s imaginative new series starts with a bang as she puts a frightening new twist to corporate greed and zombies. Fast-paced and full of surprises, this is one exciting thrill ride packed with both the best and worst of human behavior.”
—Monsters and Critics
“A fun, thrilling new series…. Bryn is a capable and multifaceted heroine…a great new take on the popular ‘zombie’ subgenre. Even more interesting, perhaps, is the way Caine has her characters show respect for the dead—something that’s missing from nearly every zombie book I’ve ever read. Well-done, indeed.”
—SFRevu
“Completely engaging and impossible to put down. This unusual, macabre tale will attract both urban fantasy and zombie fans alike.”
—SciFiChick.com
“An utterly fascinating and unique plot in the urban fantasy arena…. It will draw you in and not let you go until the very last page.”
—Bitten by Books
“Working Stiff has an interesting story line and there isn’t a brain-eating zombie in sight. Conspiracy upon conspiracy made for a good read.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“[Caine] gives us another strong leading female character who has the right balance of emotion to kick ass to make her come off of the pages as real to the reader.…Working Stiff has a steady pulse, pulling the reader from beginning to end to see how it all turns out.”
—Fresh Fiction
“The opening of Rachel Caine’s newest urban fantasy series is a terrific chemical zombie thriller…. Fans will relish Bryn’s adventures in death and life.”
—Alternative Worlds
“From page one, Working Stiff was a wonderful surprise…. Bryn’s careful, quiet personality is so winning and fierce, I was captivated.”
—All Things Urban Fantasy
“A smart zombie novel that goes beyond the typical reanimation explorations and delves into the world of big Pharma and corporate takeover…. This series is shaping up to be a very rewarding and interesting new addition to the urban fantasy genre.”
—Alpha Reader
“An intriguing new twist on the zombie mythology…. If you’re looking for a twisty, fast-paced escapist read, hop on the Revivalist train and settle down with Working Stiff. You can say, ‘I was a fan from the start,’ because if Caine can keep the suspense flowing in future books, this story has HBO series written all over it.”
—Fort Worth Weekly
PRAISE FOR
THE WEATHER WARDEN SERIES
“The forecast calls for…a fun read…. You’ll never watch the Weather Channel the same way again.”
—Jim Butcher, #1 New York Times bestselling author of
the Dresden Files
“With chick lit dialogue and rocket-propelled pacing, Rachel Caine takes the Weather Wardens to places the Weather Channel never imagined!”
—Mary Jo Putney
“A fast-paced thrill ride [that] brings new meaning to stormy weather.”
—Locus
“A tale that’s sure to keep fans at the edge of their seats…a must read.”
—Darque Reviews
“[Caine] invents new and interesting ways to ramp up the tension and the stakes…another excellent entry in a series that’s been consistently enjoyable all along.”
—The Green Man Review
“The Weather Warden books are an addictive force of nature that will suck you in.”
—News and Sentinel (Parkersburg, WV)
“Exhilarating…The story line is fast-paced and filled with plenty of magical action….Rachel Caine provides another terrific tale in one of the stronger urban fantasies on the market today.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Chaos has never been so intriguing as when Rachel Caine shapes it into the setting of a story. Each book in this series has built in intensity and fascination.”
—Huntress Book Reviews
“Rachel Caine is still going strong, throwing one curveball after another as she continues to shake up the status quo. She successfully maintains a sense of impending doom and escalating tension as the stakes get ever higher….I really like this series, because it’s urban fantasy that…tell[s] something exciting and original and ever-changing.”
—SF Site
“The action never stops, and like every other book in the series, this is a roller-coaster ride through all the elements Mother Nature can throw at Jo.”
—ParaNormal Romance
“Total Eclipse presents a fantastic culmination of the action, angst, danger and romance of the entire series.”
—Fresh Fiction
BOOKS BY RACHEL CAINE
WEATHER WARDEN
Ill Wind
Heat Stroke
Chill Factor
Windfall
Firestorm
Thin Air
Gale Force
Cape Storm
Total Eclipse
OUTCAST SEASON
Undone
Unknown
Unseen
Unbroken
REVIVALIST
Working Stiff
Two Weeks’ Notice
THE MORGANVILLE VAMPIRES
Glass Houses
The Dead Girls’ Dance
Midnight Alley
Feast of Fools
Lord of Misrule
Carpe Corpus
Fade Out
Kiss of Death
Ghost Town
Bite Club
Last Breath
Black Dawn
TWO WEEKS’
NOTICE
A REVIVALIST NOVEL
Rachel Caine
A ROC BOOK
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, August 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Roxanne Longstreet Conrad, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
ISBN: 978-1-101-5
9434-6
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
To my dear friend, and superhero, Rosemary Clement-
Moore. Just because.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many lovely people have been enthusiastic and supportive, but I have to give a special shout-out to Sarah Weiss, whose eleventh-hour text messages were absolutely wonderful. Thanks for the candles, Sarah, particularly the one for Our Lady of Deadlines. I’m burning it at both ends!
And to my family and friends who suffered through the dreaded Deadline During Christmas again. Thanks for sticking with me. Again.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Track List
Chapter 1
It was a perfect day for a funeral. Overcast, cool, no rain; sweaters, not coats. The wind was light and fresh, and although fall had arrived (as much as it ever did in California), the grass remained a bright jewel green.
From a purely objective perspective, it couldn’t have been better…though, in truth, Bryn Davis, funeral director, didn’t much care for the cemetery itself. This was a modern-style interment facility, so instead of picturesque Gothic headstones or marble sculptures, there were long expanses of lawn, spreading trees, and gently rolling hills—the impression of undisturbed nature, but oh so carefully created. Except for the recessed vases, some holding bright bouquets of flowers, it might have been a golf course. She wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see a cart roll over the hill and someone line up a difficult five-iron shot past the tent that covered the mourners and casket.
But then, she didn’t have to like this place, really; that was the family’s burden. She just had to give the impression of calm dignity as she stood with her hands folded. Until the ceremony was finished, her job was on hold—Mr. Raines’s remains had been processed and prepped, dressed and finished; the coffin had been sealed and carefully polished (nothing worse than seeing sweaty fingerprints on the shiny surface); flowers and memorial handbooks had been delivered and arranged; hearses and limousines had been freshly washed, stocked with tissues, and neatly parked. The actual graveside ceremony was Bryn’s downtime; it was her opportunity to run through the checklist in her head, over and over, to be sure she hadn’t dropped any details.
Next to her, Joe Fideli, her second-in-command, leaned closer. “Red alert. Mistress at your four o’clock,” he whispered, and she glanced in that direction without moving her head. He was, of course, absolutely right. The widow, dressed formally in black, sat ramrod-stiff in the front row beside the coffin, but they’d already been warned that she wasn’t the only woman in Mr. Raines’s somewhat colorful life.
His mistress had gone with mourning color, at least. She’d chosen a Little Black Dress, more appropriate for clubbing than a funeral, and paired it with heels that were too stiletto for the grass on which she was walking. Those shoes resulted in more of a stagger than a controlled stride. Lots of leg on display, and glossy, overdone hair.
She was headed for the funeral like a torpedo for a stationary ship, and Bryn could well imagine the spectacular bang that would make.
“Let’s avoid the drama,” Bryn whispered back, and Joe nodded. He was a big man, but he was light and quick, and besides, all eyes were on the priest. Joe faded back in slow, almost imperceptible movements, and put himself in the path of the other woman.
The priest finished his message, and the prayer began. Most bent their heads, including Bryn, but she continued to watch through her lashes just in case. That was how she saw the mistress try to continue to move forward, and Joe smoothly block her, put a gentle hand on her shoulder, and bend to whisper something to her.
She burst into tears, which was a bit remarkable. She seemed to be the only one who was actually sorry to see the old man go; the dry-eyed wife certainly had never displayed a speck of feeling in all the time Bryn had spoken with her, and wasn’t showing any now. Neither did the children, both in their teens, who looked bored. At least they weren’t texting.
The prayer finished, the priest walked to offer his (probably unneeded) comfort to the wife and kids, and right on cue, the soft music that Bryn had arranged for began to play, signaling the end of the public gathering; she’d cautioned the cemetery employees that she wouldn’t tolerate any jumping of the gun, and she was pleased to see that they were still hanging well back, pretending to be gardeners until the time came for the actual burial. There was another tent erected across the way. She knew they were pressed on their schedule to get the next funeral ready, and she was sympathetic to their need to get things moving, but still. She was a great believer in respect.
Joe had engaged the mistress in tearful conversation, and was walking her away from the graveside. The woman might have been planning a dramatic flinging-herself-over-the-coffin moment, or at the very least, a shrieking catfight with the more legally bereaved. Mrs. Raines was already heading for the limousine that would take her home; the mistress was too far away now for any effective dramatics. Deprived of any other possible entertainment, the assembled mourners—not that Mr. Raines had many—were scattering fast.
Bryn caught up with Mrs. Raines and offered her last condolences, which the widow accepted with a distant, frosty confidence. She was already basking in the soft, warm glow of being a rich woman of means, motive, and opportunity.
Poor man. His mistress, for all her tears, probably wouldn’t mourn him much longer than it took to pawn whatever he’d bought her. Bryn’s mind wandered off into lurid pulp magazine plots of poisoning, evil widows, sinister mistresses, eager-to-inherit children—but truthfully, she had no reason to suspect any foul play. It was just something to do to pass the time, standing in the cool wind, watching the living depart and leave the place to the dead.
She didn’t except herself from that description. In truth, Bryn was just as dead as Mr. Raines. She just wore it a whole lot better.
Bryn finally nodded to the cemetery staffers, who with quick, efficient movements stripped off the flower covering on the casket, and began the less-than-photogenic process of the actual burial. They dropped the sides of the tent for the mechanics of it. A third uniformed worker began folding up the chairs and picking up fallen programs from the Astroturf that had been laid down around the tent. While she was watching that happen, Joe Fideli came back across the carefully manicured lawn. There was still something a little intimidating about him no matter how much tailoring might have gone into his very nice suit; maybe it was the shaved head, or the way he moved, but he had a hell of a lot of presence.
Made a pretty good funeral director, though. And an even better bodyguard.
“Thanks for that,” she said to Joe, and he nodded.
“She looked like she was powering up for a full-on drama explosion,” he said. “So. That’s lunch, then.”
The death
business, Bryn thought, was so strange. It was all about emotion and pain and stage management, and then suddenly…lunch. “You know,” she said as she and Joe walked toward the Davis Funeral Home sedans, “it occurs to me that what we do is pretty much like being wedding planners…just with a much unhappier ending.”
He smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. Depends on the wedding,” he said. “I’ve seen some that might have been better off as funerals. You think people are capable of mayhem here, you should see what they get up to with a little champagne under their belts.”
Joe had a unique perspective on mayhem, Bryn thought; he might work for her as a funeral director, and he was a good one, but that was hardly his main vocation.…She’d never met anyone who was quite so comfortable with violence. And considering she herself had been in the army, that was saying something. She strongly suspected he had a background in special forces—Rangers, SEALs, something secretive and highly trained. For all that, he was a nice guy. Just very, very deadly.
And he was her very own private security. She knew, in fact, that he was armed with at least one weapon, possibly two; he usually doubled up when they went out in public, mostly because she hadn’t been able to find a sidearm that was easily concealable under her tailored jackets. He’d made her drill on the procedures of what to do in the event that he ever had to go for those concealed weapons: one, get behind him; two, be ready when he pitched her the second gun; three, fall back to cover while he laid down fire.
Most funeral directors, Bryn thought, never needed to think about those kinds of contingency plans. Lucky them.
Her watch alarm went off with a tiny vibration, just at the time Joe checked his cell phone and said, “Time for meds, boss.”
“I know,” she said. It came out a little sharp, and she shot him an apologetic glance. “Sorry. I don’t think I’ll ever stop hating the needles.”
“More than the alternative?”
That didn’t deserve an answer. “I thought Manny was working on some kind of pill form.”
“You know Manny.” Joe shrugged.
“Well, not really. Do you?”
He snorted and let that one go, because the fact was, she had a point. None of them really knew her chemist, Manny Glickman, and since her life depended on the man to a great extent these days, that bothered Bryn more than she liked to admit.
