Grim Rising (Aisling Grimlock Book 7) Read online

  GRIM RISING

  An Aisling Grimlock Mystery Book 7

  AMANDA M. LEE

  WinchesterShaw Publications

  Copyright © 2017 by Amanda M. Lee

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  11. Eleven

  12. Twelve

  13. Thirteen

  14. Fourteen

  15. Fifteen

  16. Sixteen

  17. Seventeen

  18. Eighteen

  19. Nineteen

  20. Twenty

  21. Twenty-One

  22. Twenty-Two

  23. Twenty-Three

  24. Twenty-Four

  25. Twenty-Five

  26. Twenty-Six

  27. Twenty-Seven

  28. Twenty-Eight

  29. Twenty-Nine

  30. Thirty

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  PROLOGUE

  17 YEARS AGO

  “I’m the prince.”

  Jerry always demands to be the prince. He thinks there’s something cool about being a prince (I think it’s the crown and froufrou pants, but you didn’t hear that from me). That means – even though we’re best friends instead of boyfriend and girlfriend – that I must be the princess. These are Jerry’s rules, mind you, not mine. But there’s no way I’d consent to being a princess in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

  I turned an incredulous stare toward my best friend as I perched on the edge of my bed, butcher knife gripped firmly in my hand. “Why would you possibly want to be a prince when we’re about to fight zombies?”

  At eleven, some people would argue that Jerry and I were too old to play zombie invasion. Luckily, none of those people lived in my house. My parents encouraged us to continue playing as long as we wanted. As long as that play didn’t include my father having to sit through another one of Jerry’s beauty shop sessions, he didn’t care what we did as long as we didn’t destroy anything or threaten cranky Mrs. Standish, who lives on the corner next to the really cool willow tree. Dad also wasn’t keen on screaming so loudly that we forced the neighbors to call the police. He’s kind of a baby about that one.

  “I always want to be a prince.” Jerry smoothed the front of his blue shirt, making sure there wasn’t a wrinkle or stray piece of lint to mar its pristine appearance. It had been my idea to play zombie apocalypse. He’d wanted to watch makeover shows on Lifetime but ultimately gave in because I was feeling dominant today. “I don’t see why a prince can’t survive the zombie apocalypse.”

  He had a point, but still … . “You’re ruining the game, Jerry,” I complained. “We’re supposed to be hunting evil undead things and jamming this knife into their brains.” My father let me watch several old zombie flicks the week before and I’d been obsessed with them ever since. He was in trouble with my mother because I had a few nightmares – and blabbed about him letting me watch the movies – but I was mostly over the terror. “If you want to survive the zombie apocalypse, you’ll have to let this prince thing go.”

  I’d known Jerry was different from the first day of kindergarten. I wasn’t big on making friends – heck, I wasn’t big on attending school and suggested my parents do something bold and tell the district that I was already smart and didn’t need any learning – when he walked up to me, announced I needed a makeover, and then refused to leave me alone for the next six years. I barely remembered a time when Jerry wasn’t in my life. Despite his determination to whine on odd occasions, I generally enjoy spending time with him.

  Tonight was one of the rare occasions I wanted to punch him in the face and make him cry.

  “Why would I possibly want to survive the zombie apocalypse if I can’t be a prince?” Jerry wrinkled his nose. “Bug, that doesn’t make any sense. I’d rather let the zombies get me than give up my crown. If we’re going to play, you have to be realistic.”

  I narrowed my eyes to purple slits. “You can’t call me ‘Bug’ in the zombie apocalypse,” I argued. “That’s not the sort of name that a zombie fighter would have.”

  “I’ve been calling you that since we were five.” Jerry planted his hands on his hips. “I’m not changing it now.”

  “You have to.” How did he not get this? “I can’t be ‘Bug’ in the zombie apocalypse. I need a cool name that strikes fear in the hearts of the screaming mortals we’re trying to save.”

  Jerry crossed his arms over his chest. “Like what?”

  “Like … Chainsaw. You can call me that.”

  Jerry rolled his eyes. “Chainsaw is a stupid name. I’m not going to call you that.”

  My temper fired. “It is not! It’s a cool name.”

  Jerry shook his head. “Stupid.”

  “Cool.”

  “Stupid.”

  “Cool!” I considered hopping off the end of the bed and throwing myself on Jerry, holding him down until he admitted Chainsaw was the coolest name ever, but I didn’t get the chance because my father swooped into the room and snagged me around the waist before I could do it.

  “What’s going on?” Dad asked, his eyes traveling to the knife in my hand. “Where did you get that?”

  I offered up a sheepish smile as he pried the handle from my grip and flipped the item in question over to study it. “I accidentally found it and was going to take it downstairs, but you caught me right before I could do that.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dad didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked agitated. That was his normal face, though, so I wasn’t particularly worried. “This knife happens to match the set we have in the kitchen. Do you know how I know?”

  I didn’t bother to hide my eye roll. “Because you know everything,” I muttered.

  “No, because a business associate gave me the knives as a gift,” Dad said. “They have peach wood handles.”

  I had no idea what peach wood was, but it was probably some expensive tree that only grew near the wallets of wealthy men. Those were the type of guys Dad surrounded himself with. “So?”

  “So I know you’re not supposed to be playing with this.” Dad carefully rested the knife on my dresser and fixed me with a dark look. “I believe we’ve talked about dangerous weapons and how you’re not supposed to threaten your friends with them.”

  “Oh, she wasn’t threatening me with the knife,” Jerry offered. “She was threatening to make me call her ‘Chainsaw,’ which is just a ridiculous name.”

  “It’s better than ‘Bug,’” I shot back, agitated.

  “Knock it off,” Dad chided, wagging a finger in my face as his gaze bounced between us. “What are you two doing?”

  “Nothing.” I didn’t need to lie – Dad would figure out what we were doing eventually – but I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture so I figured it was worth a try. If Dad was really tired he might let us slide without questioning us further.

  “What are you two doing, Jerry?” Dad persisted, turning to my best friend. He clearly wasn’t in a hurry to escape.

  “We’re playing zombie apocalypse – her idea, not mine – and she says she needs a cool nickname. But I think that ‘Chainsaw’
is a ridiculous name.” Jerry’s expression was serene as he fixed my father with a pointed stare. “I think she chose it because she’s surrounded by boys and doesn’t get enough female time.”

  “I see.” Dad made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Just out of curiosity, do you want to tell me what ‘female time’ is?”

  “It’s time to be a girl.”

  “I kind of figured that,” Dad said. “I thought maybe there was a trick or something to it.”

  “No, just time to be a girl.” Jerry had clearly lost interest in the game. “We should play something else. Oh, I know! We could play beauty shop.”

  Dad immediately started shaking his head. “There will be no beauty shop tonight. It’s late.”

  “I promise not to touch your toes again,” Jerry offered.

  Dad tilted his head to the side, considering, and then shook his head. “No beauty shop. You two are supposed to be in bed in twenty minutes.” Dad flicked his eyes to the over-sized sleigh bed in the middle of my room. I heard him talking to Mom last week, arguing that Jerry was too old to share a bed with me, but Mom put her foot down and said there was nothing wrong with it and to let it go. Dad argued some more but ultimately lost. For a guy who was used to winning, it had to be hard on him.

  “We’re not tired,” I said, wondering how far I could push Dad. “You could watch a movie with us.”

  “Absolutely not.” Dad tapped my nose as he sat at the end of the bed. “You’ve been obsessed with zombie movies lately. Your mother won’t let me pick another movie for you until you get over it.”

  “Why would I get over it?” That sounded like a really dumb idea. “I have to be ready when the zombies come, and to do that I need to watch movies to plan … um … what’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “Strategy,” Jerry automatically answered, staring at his fingernails. “We definitely should’ve played beauty shop. I need a manicure.”

  Dad pursed his lips as he regarded Jerry, shaking his head as amusement lit his eyes. “You’ll know better for next time. As for zombies, what exactly is it that you think you must be prepared for, Aisling?”

  I answered without hesitation. “The invasion.”

  “What invasion?”

  “The one where we all die from zombie bites.”

  “Well, kid, I hate to burst your bubble, but there isn’t going to be a zombie invasion because zombies aren’t real,” Dad supplied. “They’re made-up things – like from books – and you’ll never have to worry about a zombie invasion.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know things.”

  “Is this like when you knew the Tigers were going to win their World Series and you made that bet and Mom said you’re not allowed to bet at work anymore?” I challenged.

  Dad’s smile slipped. “You must stop eavesdropping. I happen to know for a fact that we had that discussion in our bedroom, which means you were listening to a conversation that didn’t involve you.”

  “That’s how most of the conversations in this house go,” I pointed out. “Zombies are real. They wouldn’t have made so many movies about them if they weren’t real.”

  Dad ran his hand over the top of my head, smoothing my flyaway black hair. “Zombies aren’t real. They’re movie monsters. You don’t have to fear movie monsters.”

  I knew he was trying to make me feel better, but he was doing a terrible job of it. “Not all movie monsters are fake, so you don’t know that zombies aren’t real.”

  “What movie monsters are real?” Dad challenged.

  “Vampires.”

  “I’ve never met a vampire. Have you?”

  There was no way I was going to let him get away with such a simplistic argument. “Maybe they’re wraiths,” I suggested, referring to the soul-sucking beasts that plagued grim reapers from time to time. “Maybe vampires are really wraiths, and instead of blood they suck souls and people got confused in olden times because … well … they were stupid or something. Did you ever consider that?”

  Dad arched an eyebrow, the corners of his lips twitching. “No, but you have a point.”

  “I always have a point.” I sank to a sitting position. “Zombies are real.”

  “No, honey, they’re not.”

  “They are too.” I refused to back down. It wasn’t in my nature. “One day you’re going to see that they’re real and I’m going to expect a big, honking apology when you do.”

  “Fine.” Dad held up his hands in surrender. “If zombies ever appear, I will apologize. They’re definitely not going to appear tonight, though, so I think it’s time you two went to bed.”

  “I’m down with that.” Jerry offered Dad an awkward fist bump. “I need my beauty sleep.”

  Dad smirked. “I think you’re plenty beautiful, Jerry, but make sure you brush your teeth before going to bed.”

  “I will.” Jerry’s smile was so wide it almost swallowed his entire face. “I have to floss and rinse with mouthwash, too. I know the drill.”

  “I know you do.” Dad tousled Jerry’s hair before pinning me with an expectant look. “You need to brush your teeth, too.”

  I stared at him for a long beat, agitation rolling through my tummy. “Zombies are real. I’ve seen them in movies. They have to be real.”

  Instead of telling me I was wrong, Dad adopted a quizzical expression. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because it’s the only thing that makes sense,” I replied. “They wouldn’t have made all of those movies if it wasn’t true.”

  “They make a lot of super hero movies and those aren’t true,” Dad countered, going for the pragmatic approach.

  “You don’t know that superheroes aren’t real,” I argued. “Sure, they might not shoot webs from their hands or fly, but they could be real. You’re real.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “You’re a different kind of superhero,” I supplied.

  “Really?” Dad looked pleased. “I believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in weeks.”

  I returned his smile. “You’re definitely a superhero. I think you’re even the type of hero who won’t tell Mom I accidentally found a knife and brought it to my bedroom.”

  Dad’s smile slipped. “You’re a master at manipulation. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  I shrugged. “No. You won’t tell, will you?”

  “Of course not.” Dad shook his head. “Do I ever tell?”

  “When she makes you sleep on the couch.”

  Dad scowled. “You need to stop eavesdropping. It’s not an attractive trait.”

  “Whatever.” I mustered a sunny smile. “Will you read to us before bed?”

  “Aren’t you too old for me to read to you?”

  “No.”

  Dad heaved out a sigh. “What story do you want? How about some Lord of the Rings?”

  I shook my head. “Carrie.”

  “Oh, I hate it when you want me to read Stephen King,” Dad complained. “If I read Carrie you’ll spend three weeks running around the house pretending you have telekinetic powers.”

  “It’s better than when you read Christine and she spent all her time spying on the cars in the garage,” Jerry noted, striding out of the bathroom.

  “You have a point.” Dad grinned at Jerry before shifting his eyes to me. “Fine. Carrie it is. Brush your teeth and get in your pajamas first. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  I couldn’t help being suspicious. “Where are you going?”

  “Someone has to put the knife back in the kitchen so you don’t get caught, don’t they?”

  That hadn’t occurred to me. “Good point.” I smiled as I hopped off the bed. “You should probably get us a snack while you’re down there. Reading a story is much more fun when you have a snack.”

  Dad stared at me for a moment, and shook his head when I risked a glance back to see if I’d pushed him too far. “One of these days, kid, I’m going to find my spine and tell you no.”


  “Let’s hope it happens before the zombies eat your spine.”

  Dad snorted. “You’re a menace, kid, but you’re my menace. Brush your teeth and change into pajamas. I’ll be back in five minutes to read your story.”

  I mock saluted his retreating figure. “I’m still going to want you on my team during the zombie apocalypse,” I called after him. “You can’t join anyone else’s team. Don’t forget that.”

  Dad stilled near the door. “I could never forget that, Aisling, and I would never want to be on anyone else’s team.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “I do.” Dad smiled. “I’ll always be on your team … even when you’re a pain in the butt and steal knives you’ve been expressly forbidden to touch.”

  Strangely enough, I knew that. “Don’t forget the snack.”

  “Don’t forget to brush your teeth. I’ll be right back.”

  I scowled at his retreating form. “Never say that. If you say that you won’t survive until the end of the story. Don’t you know anything about surviving the zombie apocalypse?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll be around for a very long time.”