Undead AF: A Queen Betsy Story (Undead - Queen Betsy, Book 16) by MaryJanice Davidson

Author:MaryJanice Davidson [Davidson, MaryJanice]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency
Published: 2023-08-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

I can’t stand fictional women who clip-clop through life with no clue they’re hot. ‘She stared at her luminous reflection and tossed her head, which sent loads of lush sable strands rippling down her back. She narrowed her sapphire blue eyes and wrinkled her perfectly pert nose, and adjusted the angle of her beauteous boobs, and wondered why a billionaire wanted to go out with someone as hideous as she was.’

Just … c’mon. Really?

That said, since I’ve always been cute, I looked pretty nifty in my Bronx and Banco Saba Leaf-Applique lace midi dress, which was meaningless because anyone would, it was Bronx and Banco, for God’s sake. It was a just-below-the-knee confection of deep blue lace against tan polyester with tons of tulle. I know, sounds weird, right?18 Like it wouldn’t really be my thing? But it was. I occasionally disguised myself like a grown-up on her way to a cocktail party attended by other grown-ups.

The dress had a high neck and loads of leaf appliqués (or was it appliqué? is the plural the same as the singular, like moose?), and I’d asked them to add long sleeves, which made it itchy. But that was the price I was bound to pay for a cocktail dress that kept me (somewhat) warm. I threw a pearl buttoned cashmere sweater the same blue as the appliqués over my shoulders, and between that and the flared skirt I looked like I’d recently been released from cryostasis after my untimely death in 1954.

The Mirror of Paradise diamond was pinned at my collarbone, an astonishing 52 carat shiny rock Sinclair had made into a brooch, a rock I was pretty sure used to be the property of The British Museum. But Sinclair wasn’t any more a thief than they were, so. I made a note to nag him to make another six-figure donation to People Serving People, to assuage my second-hand guilt.19

I studied my reflection and … well … reflected. I’d never get fat. I’d be a hot twenty-something forever. (Yes, okay, I died on my 30th birthday, fine, but I looked twenty-something, and that was something). Cancer would never be a problem, or high blood pressure, or reverse mortgages, or indifferent nursing home attendants. All I had to fear from the world was hypothermia and boredom. Oh, and all my mortal loved ones dying. And taxes.

But never mind! Party time!

At least the trickiest part of the party was over: which shoes? After a(nother) catalogue of my footgear, there emerged four contenders.

First up, Steve Madden’s Veronicka20 Clear pumps. I liked how most of the shoe was clear, except for the soles, which exactly matched the tan in my dress. And they were a steal at $129.95. I especially liked how they bristled with silver spikes. But that might be too on the nose. Plus, vampires who didn’t know me might worry I’d kick them. Which was a legitimate fear, but vampires meeting me for the first time had enough things to worry about. So back in the closet they went.

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