Queen Betsy 9 - Undead and Unfinished by Davidson MaryJanice

Author:Davidson, MaryJanice
Language: eng
Format: epub

Chapter 36

l raised my foot, had a split second to admire my navy blue loafer (Misty Moccasin, Beverly Feldman, $265, because sandals didn’t seem a sensible choice for hell) before my leg pistoned out and the church doors flew open, slamming back against the walls with a satisfying double crash.

“Don’t even,” I said as Laura cowered behind me, groaned, and covered her eyes. “This is me being subtle, so don’t even say it. Hey! Asshats!” I stomped down the aisle, ready to kick some uptight bigoted Pilgrim ass. “You guys. All you old white guys. And also your uptight wives. And why are there kids in here? You want your children to watch you lie and get hysterical and trump up charges and scare and hang innocent people? Let me guess: there’s gonna be a potluck supper afterward.”

The woman on trial—it had to be her, she was standing in front—looked at me with eyes gone huge. And the first thing I noticed was how gorgeous she was.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I surround myself with the deformed. If anything, I usually found myself hanging out with men and women who were obscenely good-looking (I had yet to meet the fugly vampire). Hell, Tina alone could have won Miss America blindfolded with two black eyes and a runny nose. And pimples! Okay, maybe not with pimples.

The would-be witch was quite small—the top of her head was way, way below my chin. But then, I was tall for an undead heathen.

Her hair, a gorgeous rippling brownish red, was piled on top of her teeny head. She had so much of it, it seemed as though the weight of all those tresses would yank her head back if she let them down.

Her skin was pale, except for two hectic flares of color on her cheeks—not blush. (I was pretty sure Revlon hadn’t been incorporated yet.) It was the hectic color of anger or fright or excitement ... or all three. And her eyes seemed almost to take up half of her face, enormous and so deep a brown they were nearly black, with dark slashing eyebrows and long lashes.

Her outfit was right out of a museum exhibit: a big fat dress—fat because of the hoopskirt thing. Big-time modest, too; she wasn’t exposing so much as an elbow dimple. The gown, too, seemed to emphasize her tiny frame and delicate features; she looked like a kid playing dress-up.

Her dress was pale blue; her neckerchief thing was transparent white lace. Long sleeves, long skirt—I could barely make out the toes of her shoes when I glanced down.

She smelled terrific, like clean cotton and sunshine. If I could have bottled that scent and brought it back to the twenty-first century, Sinclair and Jessica could have thrown their zillions away.

She had only one piece of jewelry I could see: there was a black ribbon tied around her wrist, and from it hung a little painting of an older woman. It was so small I could only make out the woman’s graying brown hair and teeny-weeny face.

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