Thicker Than Blood (Thicker Than Blood #1)(128)

These people, their noises and their smells, this place, they were making me remember all I had lost.

“I want to go home!” I screamed, slamming my clenched fists down on the floor.





About the Authors



Fantastical realm dweller, lover of anything deemed inappropriate, and USA Today bestseller Madeline Sheehan is the author of the Holy Trinity Trilogy and the Undeniable Series. Homegrown in Western New York, Madeline resides there with her husband and son where she can usually be found engaging in food fights and video game marathons.





www.madelinesheehan.com

www.facebook.com/MadelinesheehanBooks





The Undeniable Series Undeniable

Unbeautifully Unattainable Unbeloved





The Holy Trinity Series The Soul Mate My Soul to Take The Lost Souls





Claire C. Riley is a bestselling British horror writer whose work is best described as the modernization of classic, old-school horror. She fuses multi-genre elements to develop storylines that pay homage to cult classics while still feeling fresh and cutting edge. She writes characters that are realistic, and kills them without mercy. Claire lives in the United Kingdom with her husband, three daughters, and one scruffy dog.





www.clairecriley.com

www.facebook.com/ClaireCRileyAuthor





The Obsession Series Limerence

Limerence 2





The Dead Saga Odium 1

Odium Origins 1

Odium 2

Odium Origins 2





Excerpt





THE BEAUTIFUL DEAD

by Daryl Banner



P R O L O G U E

It’s so cold. It’s so, so cold.

What you should know is, the first time a dead man opened his eyes, the twenty-seven doctors in the room screamed. The dead man did not bite them or foam at the mouth. He didn’t claw at them with his dirty nails nor did he grunt and moan like the dead were expected to do.

The dead man just opened his tiny mouth and asked, “Where am I?”

I’m so cold, but let me assure you, it was a quiet end. That’s what you should know above all else. Even with bombs all over the news. Mushroom clouds and calmly-reporting reporters. Debris snowing from the heavens, like winter. Bombs here, bombs there, bombs in your backyard and your neighbor’s living room. Smoke and liquid fire ate up the cities, the forests, the children.

No one knew exactly what was happening, and by the time they did, it was over.

And they were dead. All of them. Fire and smoke still covered the land like a blanket long after they were gone, the last of leaves and tree trunks burning on. The final blink of mother nature’s eye before she retired for a long, long sleep. Sweet dreams.

I’m not sure where I was when all this happened. I may have died already, but it doesn’t matter. None of us were going to survive.

At least, not completely.

If time were an endless plain, this event is the chasm cut deep in the earth, its yawn spanning far beyond what light can reach. This awesome rift, we will never know for sure how wide it is. But on the other side, as sure as we are that there is another side, that’s where my story begins. Not when the world ended, but long after.

After the trees have all but expired.

After oceans burn and mountains fall.

After the sky.

It’s so, so cold, but before my life is gone … before I forget my mother’s face or my favorite flower or my name, I need to explain something, and it’s crucial that you pay attention. I’m so cold, but just let me say this one last thing to you before I’m dead, before I’m

before I’m

before I’m

Are you paying attention?





C H A P T E R – O N E





W I N T E R


I came into this world like most people do: screaming.

“Don’t worry,” a kind voice tells me. “You’re just dying.”

Everything hurts. My skin is all icy and bitter. My heart’s a heavy stone the earth is trying to wretch from my chest and my vision is an angry haze—I am blind.

“Your eyes are adjusting, girl. Just relax.”

Dying?—Did she just saying I’m dying?

“Undying,” she amends. “You’re undying. But really it’s sort of the same.”

I’m reaching out for my mom. I want to find my dad’s hands and pull them toward me, they should be there somewhere. I’m furious that no one seems to be helping me, that no one’s there.

“No use in screaming on, you’ll just break your voice. You might need it.”

Why would I need a voice if I’m dead? And for that matter, how’d I die? When did that happen? Shouldn’t I know?

“No use trying to remember,” she murmurs sadly, her voice strangely accented. “That was your Old Life … a nothing life.”

I can’t picture my mom’s face. Or dad’s. There’s a strange vacuum in my mind now, like I can’t even remember having parents. The idea of anything existing before this moment, that simple idea seems so difficult to understand suddenly.

“You’re the worst I’ve ever heard! This awful screaming! Really, you should quiet down. You’ll wake the dead.”