The Undead: Playing for Keeps, by Elsie Elmore
Genre: young-adult, paranormal
Publisher: Curiosity Quills Press
Date of Publication: September 3rd, 2014
Cover Artist: Alexandria Thompson (http://gothicfate.com/)
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22131059-the-undead?from_search=true
Description:
When an undead woman with serious de-comp issues stalks sixteen-year-old Lyla Grimm, her hope of rescuing her rock-bottom reputation takes a back seat. Especially once Lyla’s new talent of resurrecting the dead draws the attention of Eric, a Grim Reaper with a guitar and a chip on his shoulder.
While Lyla navigates the gossip-ridden halls, Eric works to gain her trust and discover why Death’s clients aren’t staying down. If she passes on her gift, his death-messenger destiny mightbe altered. But the closer he gets to Lyla, the less sure he is of his plan. The dead are way easier to deal with than the living.
Gossip explodes, the Grimm family implodes, and desperation sets in. Death wants the gift and a soul. Lyla and Eric face hard choices with hidden consequences. Sometimes life’s choices aren’t really choices at all.
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About The Author:
Elsie Elmore lives in North Carolina with her husband and two kids.
With a science education degree from NCSU, she never imagined she would someday write stories that challenge the laws of nature. She loves the color red, has an appreciation for chocolate and coffee that borders on obsession, and wishes fall temperatures would linger year round.
Elsie is a member of several writing organizations: RWA, SCBWI, and WSW. The Undead : Playing for Keeps is her debut novel.
Find Elsie Elmore Online:
Website (http://elsieelmore.com/) | Facebook(https://www.facebook.com/elsieelmorewriter) | Twitter (https://twitter.com/ElsieWriter) |Goodreads (https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8213277.Elsie_Elmore)
CHAPTER ONE EXCERPT:
Lyla
My stomach drops when I see the dead woman lying on the table. Convinced the dim light is playing tricks on my eyes, I reach over and flip the switch. The overhead fluorescents flicker on and light cascades down onto the body. Dread replaces the doubt. I move closer for a better look. She’s not peaceful like the others. This is bad, really bad. Mom will go ballistic when she sees this.
“Lyla, what are you doing back here?” Ben whispers and gives me a playful shove.
I flinch, almost coming out of my skin. Ben’s always been better at the scaring game we started a long time ago. While I both love and hate our game, I also suck at it.
I turn and squint at him. “Asshole. This room should be off limits.”
“Language,” he chides and clicks his tongue. After glancing at the body, he steps up beside me and snickers. “You’re in so much trouble,” he says, drawing out each word as if it were a paragraph.
“No, I’m not.”
“Where’s Kate?”
“She’s gone, I guess.”
Kate Huntington, the eccentric beautician with tacky green highlights is gone, and only her handiwork remains. Glittery blue eye shadow and sapphire eyeliner cover the dead woman’s lids. Black mascara coats her lashes so thickly that her eye sockets resemble piles of tangled spider legs. She looks like a showgirl, an old, dead showgirl. I don’t even want to acknowledge the dark foundation, the cherry red lipstick, or the words “I quit” scrawled in eyeliner across her forehead.
“Mom and Dad are going to freak when they find out she left this. Mrs. Weller’s visitation is tonight.”
“Wait.” Ben’s interest shifts and he takes a closer look at the still body. “This is Mrs. Weller?”
“Yeah.”
“Leave her. Nobody will come see her anyway.” His nose wrinkles at the lifeless form. “Everybody hated her.”
“You hated her. I don’t think everyone else did.”
“She was horrible.”
“You’re still holding a grudge? You were in seventh grade when she busted you for taking off during the Chamber of Commerce field trip. Let it go.”
I lean closer to Mrs. Weller’s face. She looks like a sweet old lady, if you ignore what Kate did, but Ben always hated her. Then again, Ben dislikes most of his teachers. They all want him to work harder to meet his potential. Ben has other plans for his potential.
“Whatever. You wouldn’t know. Your nose stays stuck so far up their—”
I elbow him in the ribs. “Grab me a wet washrag. I’ve got to fix this.”
“No. I’m not touching anything in here, her included.”
“I didn’t ask you to touch her. I just asked you to get a washrag. You scared?”
“Disgusted is more like it.”
I huff, walking over to the sink. The room reeks of disinfectant, but it’s better than the embalming room smell that clings to everything like cobwebs.
“Are you worried Dad will mistake your help for interest? You know, this place isn’t the enemy.”
“Easy for you to say. He’s not trying to steal your future.” He crosses his arms. Ben’s senior year has been a struggle about his future. He and Dad both want control.
Grimm Funeral Home is now run by the fifth generation of Grimms. Dad worked here part-time as a teenager and returned after college just as his father before him had and so on and so on.
“What are you doing here anyway?” he asks. “Mom and Dad will be pissed if they catch you back here.”
“I came to ask Mom about spending the night at Cassie’s.”
“But Mom’s not in here.”
“I know. But I couldn’t walk by the door without peeking. And this is what I found.”
The water from the faucet splashes around the big white ceramic basin. Every room down the back hallway has too much white: white walls, white counters, and white cabinets. Everything feels sterile, worse than a doctor’s office.
“You’re really going to touch her?” Ben asks, now standing farther away from the table.
“Yep. I am.” I haven’t thought about it enough to freak myself out, unlike Ben. “It’s just a body without a soul, like a table. No big deal. Well, except for the horrendous makeup.”
“I wouldn’t. Mom and Dad are going to rail on you if you screw this up, which you’re going to do.” He sweeps his dark hair off his forehead while he inches backwards. “You don’t wear makeup. How are you going to know how to put it on?”
“I’ll rely on my artistic ability.” I dab Mrs. Weller’s face with the warm rag. “Besides, I do wear makeup.”
“Lyla, stop.” He points at the table. “Aren’t you supposed to be licensed or vaccinated to do this? What if she was sick or something?”
Is that genuine concern in his voice? “I’ll be fine. Besides, it has to get done. Mom’s got too much going on today and Dad doesn’t know the first thing about makeup.”
“Touching her is a bad idea,” he snaps.
