Only the Good Die Young Read online

  A FREE SPIRIT

  The second I snapped out of what Amanda Lee called my “residual haunting phase”—a time loop I was clearly stuck in until she yanked me out of it with the psychic mojo in her voice and the sight of the bracelets from my era—I knew just what I was.

  Dead.

  Deader than a doornail. Deader than a shrunken head. Deader than when video killed the radio star.

  Very dead indeed. Actually, I had been living that truth over and over for a long time in that forest, so death didn’t seem like all that big an issue when I became an intelligent spirit. What actually freaked me out more than anything was the fact that I didn’t remember who my killer was. I guess I’d spent so much time in my noninteractive ghost state that I’d gone a little numb. Or maybe, as Amanda Lee suggested, I had some sort of “fright wall” erected in my brain, and that was the only thing keeping my fragile spirit psyche together.

  Amanda Lee thought my memories would all come back to me, though, just as soon as I was ready to deal. And, being a total rich-lady do-gooder, she promised to help me figure out my deal. To her, I was a real live . . . I mean . . . not totally alive mystery.

  PRAISE FOR THE VAMPIRE BABYLON SERIES

  “A dark, dramatic, and erotic tone. . . . Fans of Charlaine Harris and Jim Butcher may enjoy.”

  —Library Journal

  “Green writes a complex story featuring well-defined characters and more than enough noir mystery to keep readers enthralled.”

  —School Library Journal

  “A book to die for! Dark, mysterious, and edged with humor, this book rocks on every level!”

  —Gena Showalter, author of The Darkest Lie

  “A killer mystery. . . . Bring on book two!”

  —Kelley Armstrong, author of Counterfeit Magic

  “An exciting, action-packed vampire thriller. A fantastic tale that . . . provides book lovers with plenty of adventure and a touch of romance.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Dawn makes a spunky vampire slayer.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A kick-butt ride from start to finish with plenty of twists, turns, and surprises.”

  —Monsters and Critics

  “An intriguing world that becomes more complex with every turn of the page . . . kick-butt action.”

  —Huntress Book Reviews

  “A fast-moving urban fantasy filled with murder, mystery, and a large dose of the supernatural. The vivid characterization and danger at every turn will keep readers engaged.”

  —Darque Reviews

  “A dark, edgy, and complex series.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A dark and thrilling paranormal tale . . . a gritty and suspenseful ride.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Chris Marie Green does a wonderful job of bringing this gritty, dark novel to life.”

  —The Best Reviews

  ALSO BY CHRIS MARIE GREEN

  The Vampire Babylon Series

  Night Rising

  Midnight Reign

  Break of Dawn

  A Drop of Red

  Path of Razors

  Deep in the Woods

  The Bloodlands Series (Writing as Chris Cody)

  Bloodlands

  Blood Rules

  In Blood We Trust

  ONLY THE GOOD DIE YOUNG

  JENSEN MURPHY, GHOST FOR HIRE

  CHRIS MARIE GREEN

  ROC

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Chris Marie Green, 2014

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  ISBN 978-1-101-60082-5

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Prasie

  ALSO BY CHRIS MARIE GREEN

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  In the Beginning . . .

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  To every writer’s group I’ve been a part of over the years. Your support and knowledge are the building blocks of what I love to do. Thank you!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I want to thank Ginjer Buchanan for believing in me! That also goes for my agent, Pamela Harty, and my critique partners, Sheri Whitefeather and Judy Duarte, plus my family. You guys are all inspirations to me.

  And speaking of inspiration, thank you to Deborah J. Ross and Linda Thomas-Sundstrom. As writers, we are often asked how we get book ideas, and the most accurate thing I can come up with is that every story has its genesis, starting with one domino, and then growing stronger as each one connects with the one before, causing others to fall into what becomes a real, live book.

  The dominos for this series were set in motion at a lunch during the 2011 World Fantasy Con. A private, profound story from Deborah was the first domino, and it connected to the next one while Linda and I were on our way back to the workshops, exchanging thoughts about what we’d heard from our friend. The next one fell as we moved on to chatting about true crime books, in particular the excellent The Cases That Haunt Us by John E. Douglas and Mark Olshaker. I told Linda about the stories in it—profiles of the JonBenét Ramsey, O. J. Simpson, and Jack the Ripper cases, among others—and then Linda referred back to the title of the book. “People like [a certain killer] should be haunted,” she said. Bam! “What if there was a ghost who worked for an agency that tried to scare confessions out of people?” I blurted out. Linda and I laughed, and from that point on, Jensen Murphy started talking to me in her ’eighties, dead-girl, justice-seeking ghost voice.

  Lest you think I forgot about my final thank-you (not quite!), much appreciation goes to my readers. You are always there, always supportive, and always awesome. It’s an honor to know you on Facebook and Twitter, and it makes my week when I meet you in person. Hope you enjoy this new series—it’s all yours.

  In the Beginning . . .

  On the anniversary of Jensen Murphy’s disappearance, the psychic knew, without a doubt, that this was finally the night she would f
ind her.

  Amanda Lee Minter walked alone through the night-shaded trees of Elfin Forest, a place where haunted energy filled the air with legends like the White Lady and the insane asylum that was supposed to have burned to the ground and left many a soul to wander. And there had to be at least a hundred other ghost stories besides these, all pressed around the windy trails that snaked from the Southern California coast and then inland like long, gnarled fingers beckoning people to enter the darkness.

  To get lost and maybe never found, just like Jensen Murphy.

  After the police had finished all their interviews and investigations, it became public knowledge that twenty-three-year-old Jensen and her friends had ventured into the forest on that fateful night to scare themselves silly with the help of some of those ghost stories and, at least for the other kids, booze. Jensen had refrained that night since she’d been the designated driver.

  But the group at large was only doing what so many others had done over the years, driving up to the security-guarded gates of Questhaven—a supposed cult church that was really only a spiritual retreat—and trooping through the woods nearby so that they might get a peek of the hooded figures that were supposed to roam the area.

  Amanda Lee was too darn old to be frightened by that nonsense, though. Fifty-two years of psychic intuition had shown her some real hauntings.

  And so had life itself.

  As leaves crunched under her fringed boots, she knew just where to go, and she looked around at the shadows, drawing her shawl tighter, feeling the night’s chill on her face. Then she made her way deeper into the woods until she stopped, cocked her head, listened to what no normal person would be able to pick up in the air.

  A buzzing.

  A . . . presence?

  After months of preparing herself for this moment, she moved forward, taking shelter behind a tree, finding what she had been looking for all along.

  Jensen Murphy.

  Amanda Lee could barely breathe as she watched the young woman crouching near the trunk of an oak on all fours nearby.

  Carefully, with her heart catching in her throat, Amanda Lee kneeled, her skirt spreading around her.

  The girl was unnaturally gray under the shadow-filtered moonlight, her fingers scratching at the dirt, her eyes wide with animal fright as she fixed her attention on something in the distance. Amanda Lee thought of a picture she’d seen of Jensen Murphy from the night she’d disappeared: a rosy-cheeked face, long and straight strawberry summer hair, freckles sprinkled over her nose, a glimmer of mischief in her green eyes as she posed with a Mello Yello she’d been drinking that night at the party. She was dressed in a pair of Levi’s jeans and a light blue top rolled up at the sleeves and tied at the waist with a white tank underneath.

  She was the all-American girl who’d been popular in high school, everybody’s best friend.

  And someone’s prey.

  “Jensen?” Amanda Lee whispered.

  The girl didn’t react.

  She’s in a state of numbness, Amanda Lee thought, and she tried to reach her again, louder now.

  “Jensen?”

  Nearby, an owl took off in a flutter of wings, shaking a few leaves off a branch.

  But even then, Jensen Murphy didn’t move. Her terrified gaze was still fixed on the trees to the right of Amanda Lee.

  The eerie silence scratched down her spine. She didn’t look around, though. Nothing would be there. At least nothing that could hurt her. Her sixth sense had already told her that.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” Amanda Lee said, her voice stronger. “I’m going to help you.”

  The girl began to shake her head, crawling behind the tree trunk, as if it could hide her from whatever was out there.

  “Jensen—”

  A strangled sound—half scream, half cry—came out of Jensen Murphy just before she sprang to her feet and started to run, her white sneakers flashing in the moonlight.

  Amanda Lee pressed a hand over her mouth as she watched helplessly: Jensen making it only a few steps away before she crashed to the ground on her stomach. Jensen screaming as she turned onto her back, lifting her arms and pleading, sheltering her face, and then—

  Then there was . . . nothing.

  No more Jensen, no more missing girl.

  Nothing except for the empty air, traced by a smell that stole into Amanda Lee’s senses. Fear. Sweat. And the faint hint of something else she couldn’t identify yet.

  She calmed her heartbeat, her intuition telling her there would be more to come. She reached into her skirt pocket and gripped an object she had brought with her—something that would be all too familiar to Jensen.

  “I’m only here to help you,” Amanda Lee whispered again.

  Nothing moved—not unless you counted the near-distant creak of a branch, the wind whistling through trees.

  Still, she waited.

  Waited.

  Until Jensen popped into existence again, out of thin air.

  Hardly surprised at this turn of events, Amanda Lee watched as the girl repeated everything she had done before, as if she were in a time loop: crouching beneath the tree, her wide gaze on something in the near distance—

  This time, though, Amanda Lee held out the objects in her hand—a black-banded network of rubber bracelets like the ones Madonna used to wear before she’d gone fully mainstream. They were dull with age.

  Ignoring them, Jensen was already shaking her head, inching back toward the tree.

  “Jensen!” Amanda Lee had focused every bit of mental energy and desperate sympathy she had into the name, and now . . .

  Now, with a burst that felt electric and startling, Jensen Murphy swiveled her gaze over to Amanda Lee.

  Air whooshed out of her lungs, and for a breathless second, she didn’t know what to do. She’d never encountered anything like this before.

  But Amanda Lee recovered soon enough, straightening her spine as Jensen’s gaze locked onto the bracelets.

  “You lost jewelry just like this that night,” Amanda Lee said, offering the objects again, just as if the conversation she was having with Jensen were perfectly normal, as if, every day, she encountered missing women like this.

  She shook the jewelry, reclaiming the girl’s focus. “These could have been yours.”

  Jensen narrowed her eyes, obviously confused now. Then, spooked, she looked around the forest, then back at Amanda Lee, whose blood was rushing to her head, making her dizzy with surreal success.

  “You have a sort of amnesia,” Amanda Lee said as gently as possible. “I hear it isn’t unusual, and it should disappear as you get over the initial shock.”

  “I’m . . .” Jensen trailed off.

  The word had sounded like a burst of static, but somehow Amanda Lee understood it clearly.

  “It’s March fifteenth.” Amanda Lee smiled at Jensen, her gaze going fuzzy with oncoming tears. Emotion that she couldn’t hold back for much longer. “I’ve tried to find you on other nights, but then I realized . . . you might come and go, but you would definitely be here now, on this date, after midnight. That’s when your friends noticed you hadn’t returned to their party here in the woods.”

  The young woman lifted her colorless gray hand, looking at it as if she was just now recalling something vague, something that was slowly coming back to her. “This . . . is the night . . .”

  She was having trouble forming words, but Amanda Lee had no problem supplying them.

  “That’s right,” she said softly, gradually walking toward her. “This is the night you died, nearly thirty years ago, and I’m here to help you figure out who killed you.”

  She didn’t add that she had something else in mind for Jensen Murphy, too.

  She reached out to touch the ghost’s face, but Amanda Lee felt only a zapping chill when her hand met the freezing air.

  1

  It took me a while to get used to being a real ghost, and I only say that because, since my death, I guess I was in some k
ind of state of shock.

  That’s what Amanda Lee told me, anyway.

  My so-called savior was an intuitive and—well, let’s just be honest—a different lady. First of all, when she pronounces her name, it sounds a lot like that creepy house in the book Rebecca. Remember “Manderley”? That’s just about how Amanda Lee says her name, except with an a at the beginning. “A MANdaley.” I think it’s because of the years she spent living in Virginia before moving to SoCal. She told me a little bit about that after she rescued me from the woods, but we’ve basically been talking about me instead ever since then.

  At least, she’s been telling me what she knows of my story.

  Based on what my friends had said to the police about that night, the tale went a little something like this: a young college dropout slash Round Table Pizza waitress and her buddies went out late to frolic in the spooky old forest out of sheer boredom. Said waitress had been drying out from a bender the night before, so she’d drunk scads of soda pop because she’d been in charge of carting around her doped-up buddies, then wandered off to take a pee, never to return.

  And that’s all she wrote. No body, no blood at my death spot, no trace of evidence that would help the cops to find me—not much of anything, really.

  Weirdly, when I heard what’d happened to me, it didn’t surprise me all that much, because the second I snapped out of what Amanda Lee called my “residual haunting phase”—a time loop I was clearly stuck in until she yanked me out of it with the psychic mojo in her voice and the sight of the bracelets from my era—I knew just what I was.

  Dead.

  Deader than a doornail. Deader than a shrunken head. Deader than when video killed the radio star.

  Very dead indeed. Actually, I had been living that truth over and over for a long time in that forest, so death didn’t seem like all that big an issue when I became an intelligent spirit. What actually freaked me out more than anything was the fact that I didn’t remember who my killer was. I guess I’d spent so much time in my noninteractive ghost state that I’d gone a little numb. Or maybe, as Amanda Lee suggested, I had some sort of “fright wall” erected in my brain, and that was the only thing keeping my fragile spirit psyche together.