Happy Hour of the Damned

Happy Hour of the Damned

3.5 42
by Mark Henry

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The Thing No One Tells You About Dying Is Just How Much Fun It Can Be.

Alive, ad exec Amanda Feral worked hard to wring enjoyment out of her days. Now that she's a zombie, it's a different story. Turns out, Seattle is home to glamorous undead of every description, and Amanda—stylish and impeccably groomed even in the afterlife—is swigging


The Thing No One Tells You About Dying Is Just How Much Fun It Can Be.

Alive, ad exec Amanda Feral worked hard to wring enjoyment out of her days. Now that she's a zombie, it's a different story. Turns out, Seattle is home to glamorous undead of every description, and Amanda—stylish and impeccably groomed even in the afterlife—is swigging cocktails and living large (so to speak) among its elite. But there are downsides. Not being able to stomach anything except alcohol and human flesh, for instance. And the fact that someone is targeting Seattle's otherworldly inhabitants for their own sinister reasons.

Preying on the undead is seriously uncool. The only option is for Amanda and her zombie BFF Wendy and gorgeous gay vampire pal Gil to unearth the culprit among the legions of Seattle's bloodsuckers, shapeshifters, reapers, succubi, and demons—before they all meet a fate a lot worse than death. . .

"Worth a read;priceless, really. Road Trip of the Living Dead can't come soon enough."
Urban Fantasy Land

Editorial Reviews

School Library Journal

An unexpected encounter with a man whose breath turns her into a flesh-eating zombie marks Amanda Feral's induction into Seattle's secret supernatural community, obsessed with designer clothes, trendy clubs-and strange disappearances. When one of Amanda's undead friends vanishes, she, along with fellow zombie Wendy and vampire friend Gil, uncovers plot that threatens to consume the city's walking dead. Henry's first novel is not for the squeamish or for readers uncomfortable with graphic sex, and the proliferation of frivolous footnotes detracts from the otherwise fast-paced action. Fans of splatter fiction and visceral horror laced with the perceptions of a fashionista seem to be the primary target for this eccentric urban fantasy.

—Jackie Cassada

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

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4.10(w) x 6.60(h) x 1.00(d)

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By MARK HENRY KENSINGTON BOOKS Copyright © 2008 Mark Henry
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-7582-2522-1

Chapter One It's Saturday; It's the Well of Souls.

A few hints: the damned of Seattle congregate at the Orphanage on Tuesday nights for half-price nibbles and cocktail specials, Convent on Thursdays, for Burlesque of the Living Dead, and Pharmacy on Fridays, which is brand new, and I have never been (don't let that stop you, I hear it's mind-blowing) ... -Other world Weekly

Saturday night is all about the Well of Souls-see and be seen is the rule-there is no excuse for an absence, least of all a bad hair day. Shit, even if it looks like broom straw or the waxy coils plunged from drains, just throw on a hat, a wig, or whatever you have to do; the worst that could happen is public embarrassment and mockery. Nobody's died from those. Fortunately, Wendy and I didn't have to worry about that; we were looking hot as Hell, and ready to burn it down.

She wore her trademark mix of lush patterns in silk and wool, which she's been cultivating for a decade like a rose hybrid. On this particular night, she was working it short-short-short in a devilish Galliano skull and crossbones print dress. She wrapped the frock in a constricting bouclé sweater that cupped under her breasts and showed them off like a slutty European peasant girl. Her blond hair hung in perfect esses, framing her fair skin in a glow of spun sugar.

I must stop there. If Wendy had her way, the subject would never veer from her.

So let's move on ...

I sported my "Variations on Black" vintage Azzedine Alaia. I pulled it out on occasion to air like a favorite strand of pearls. It molded to my curves like a second skin, the very fibers followed each shift and undulation. My kicks were black, strapped, and towered on a heel that could impale the most amorous vamp. My hair is brown to the point of black with caramel notes-think of the first crema rising through the black of a properly made espresso-and up in a loose twist to show off these big retro hoop earrings I was rocking, like it was the '70s all over again.

Sexy? That's certain, but enough about fashion; let's move on to the oh-so-important seating arrangements ...

Our reserved black-velvet-draped banquette was centrally located between the restrooms, the dance floor, and the ice bar, perfect for witnessing both fashion atrocities and supernatural scandals. Ricardo, the Well's owner and bartender, was so good to us, always assuring our favorite spot, and providing eye candy to boot. I spotted him across the room shaking a metal shaker with a flourish. Which brought to mind the question: where's my fucking Flirtini?

Normally at the Well, I have no complaints, but, on this night, Ricardo was breaking in a new waitress. That's right, I refuse to call them cocktail servers or waitstaff, and if anyone commented as to the political correctness of my terminology, I'd have their head and everything else. Her name was Isobel, and she was exactly what you'd expect-slow, boring, obnoxious, and-wouldn't you know-pretty. To describe her as a doe-eyed starlet-type would be fairly accurate, but would neglect an account of her childlike intelligence and subpar vocabulary.

I was scanning the crowd for our regular waitress, Jezebel, when my eye caught on a table pressed against the furthest crescent of the club. Those booths, set deep within swags of thick jewel-toned curtains, were normally occupied by the evil bloodsuckers of Karkaroff, Snell and Associates, and some of them were even in attendance, but Dona Elizabeth Karkaroff was the only one worth noting, believe me, and don't ever look her in the eye, everyone knows that, never in the eye-I cannot stress this enough. The legal firm was a nasty crew, dealing in divorces and disillusionments, of the mysterious sort.

Mannish creatures flitted around her like butterflies, their thorny heads covered in fedoras, berets and caps, in shapes and sizes that must have put their milliners through Hell. They leaned in, whispered to her, roamed the area, covered their mouths. The lady herself, slouched elegantly, legs crossed and protruding from the shadows into that space between tables, like a track hurdle for the waitresses. Maybe Isobel tried to get through that way and didn't make it back. Karkaroff's cigarette glow lit her angular face. Her dark probing eyes searched the cavernous space.

I averted my gaze.

On that night, a darker than normal presence spread a dense layer of gloom through the already murky yet sophisticated atmosphere.

"Is that Cameron Hansen?" I asked.

Wendy tracked my nod to a deep copse of tables, and her eyes widened as they lit on the shadowed celebrity. "It is. Jesus, what's he doing here?" Her face fixed in a grimace, as though she were about to vomit across the table or had turned a corner and was surprised by the glaring eye of an asshole, crowning a thick brown mass. "I can't stand that shrimp."

"I certainly didn't get the memo." I lit a two-tone, pink-on-green cigarette that I'd had personally rolled and drew a mouthful of the pungent apricot-flavored smoke. I glared in the actor's direction, and blew without inhaling-obviously, the lungs don't exactly work anymore. I quit years ago, but after my death, I decided, what the hell?

Cameron Hansen appeared benign enough, sitting with a blonde pile of vacant silicone on one side and a shiny Asian boy on the other, but so many of his kind do, not that I'm remotely aware of his actual species. On the outside, he was awkwardly handsome, albeit far beneath most people's height requirements; inside Cameron was one hundred percent monster, or so I'm told. On several occasions, Ricardo shared, under his breath, tales of having to clean up the actor's sloppy kills, following previous visits to the Well.

We might have left, just then, simply to avoid the actor's bad energy, if we hadn't been waiting for Liesl and Gil to arrive for our weekly snarkfest. Nothing was more enjoyable than the four of us volleying hilarious barbs, at the expense of the moronic undead and neverliveds. Liesl was on her way, and Gil was perpetually late to the point of actually being punctual, but he never missed the chance to rail on his peers or drink blood from sparkling martini glasses. We loved him, and when I say we, it's not the royal plural; I'm including you. So we just sat, spat gossip, and grew increasingly irritable about our cocktailless hands.

The Well of Souls is certainly in no Seattle guidebook, and no one will direct you to its doors. It is a nightclub that does not exist in your world. Well, that's not altogether true and frankly, you should know, I can slip into a bit of drama. The truth is, the Well of Souls is our bar, just as are Convent, Pharmacy, Malevolence, Orphanage and the aptly named Les Toilettes. Our places are right out in the open, just like yours, but you can't see them, and it's too bad, because they are amazing feats of sinister architecture and engineering.

"There they are!" Our drinks bobbed on a tray, afloat on the sea of pouty-lipped club goers, Isobel's hand invisible in the murk. My pink Flirtini and Wendy's Melon Ball nodded right past Cheryl Rand, the famous water sprite and owner of Discreet Dry Cleaners, and Cash Zinsser, a vampire and social essayist, who had just written a scathing review of the all-demon-owned Malevolence. In it he reported the drinks were overpriced, the appetizers, inedible, and the victims, flavorless. The two were wrapped in a furtive embrace, groping, clawing. He grazed from her neck like a cow chewing cud. It made me feel icky.

As the drinks swung past the dance floor, a forest of arms rose to obscure them. They bounced to the rhythm, some glowed fluorescently with rows of Band-Aids lined up like dominos, because, this season, it's all about cloud, and cloud is the new crank. The faces attached to the flailing limbs were giddy, mostly fanged-out and with eyes like saucers. The cloud was having its known effect, euphoria. Across the room, the bathroom seemed to be home to the "paster," a male wearing a retro Kangol hat and massive gold chains. He supplied the drug from a repurposed Crest tube and slapped on the bandages to keep it in place for maximum absorption.

Isobel drifted past the ballet-dancing werewolf, Lina Peritzkova, who hunkered over her drink, one of Ricardo's secret recipe Black Devils, thick as syrup. Lina still nursed the hurt of failure; she couldn't seem to test out of the chorus, despite an impressive arabesque. Wendy and I used to joke that one day we would take water pistols filled with Liquid Moonglow[TM] and blast her from the orchestra seats during Swan Lake. But, seeing her in this downtrodden state stripped the humor from that idea.

A single margarita rode alongside the two martinis; I watched it, longed for its sweet warmth, and salty aftertaste. Because this is not a perfect afterworld, the margarita's owner was served first. A long-fingered hand coiled around the offered cocktail as Isobel wrinkled a cloying smile. The hand belonged to Shane King. Isn't a margarita an odd drink for someone so masculine? I wouldn't mind mangling him. He looked to be about twenty-eight, a shade younger than I, but was probably over a hundred. He wore a square jaw, kind eyes and the tousled blond hair of a surfer. The golden boy vampire-I'm not ashamed to admit-was the subject of at least two early morning pillow hump fantasies. I tried to erase his drink choice information from my mind and focus on the image of his butt; I sometimes called upon it. Whatever it takes, right girls?

"Look over there." I pointed in Shane's direction.

"Mmm, yummy. Dibs." Wendy shoved out of the banquette before I could protest, slipped through the crowd like a professional, touched shoulders and winked, and stopped to grind hips with a familiar face, or three. And then she was with him, sliding in close. Was he alone?

I turned away with an ech, to find Gil bumping and pushing his way to the table. Gil looked very much the part: his hair, jet black, and skin, a golden-blushed olive stretched over a lean muscular frame, a vampire, obviously, but so sadly, stereotypically gay. But still, I could look.

"What up, bitch?" he said as he plopped down into the banquette, slouching, one leg splayed into the passing lane. I thought of Karkaroff. Was it becoming a trend to block walkways, or a cry for attention?

"You're working that fashion editorial vibe a little hard, don't ya think?"

"Gotta glitter." He motioned to his black and grey pinstriped jacket, presenting it like a game show hostess playing up the crap prizes. "It's Armani."

The drinks arrived, and Gil ordered a vodka martini with two olives, an extra glass, and a pint of warm red. He explained that the vodka was a sheer sensory pleasure, sniffed and rolled over the tongue. Isobel would have to bring a spittoon if she expected a tip. I tried to avoid eye contact with the incompetent waitress, lest she cause me to become irritable. Regardless, the Flirtini was perfect (see inset); it glowed hot pink under the disco's black light. Ricardo was on point. The frost clung to my cold dead fingers, like sugared fruit on a holiday centerpiece.

"Is that Armani with an 'e'?" I asked. Although, in truth, the whole outfit hung on that jacket, and it was a beautiful cut.

"Funny. Where are the others?"

I directed his eyes to the other side of the room. Shane nuzzled against Wendy's neck. His lips were parting and beginning to bare canines. It startled me a bit. I wondered if Wendy was aware of the possibility of being scarred by her encounter with the pretty boy.

"Ew, whore," Gil said, stretching the accusation into two distinct syllables.

"No doubt. Could you?"

"Absolutely." Gil shook the look of faux-disgust from his face. He bit the inside of his cheek and blew a vibrating blood-fueled whisper across the room. It unfurled and coiled and stretched as though a snake of pink mist escaped from his mouth. It stained the air until it found its target ear, and then slid inside, snapping from view. No one in the club seemed at all interested.

He's going to bite, bitch.

Wendy pushed back from Shane and took his upper lip in her fingers; she examined his slowly retracting teeth and then let his lip go. He gave her a sickening smile, she returned a playful slap, and then darted from his side galloping back to our table, leaving him looking around, embarrassment spreading across his cheeks like fresh blood-kill.

"Gilly!" she yelled. "Love you."

"And you." He leaned toward her and gave her a Euro double kiss.

"Thanks for the heads-up on the biter. I swear to God if he'd left a mark I would've torn him apart. Is Liesl here yet?"

"No," I said. "Haven't seen her. Let me text her." I fumbled for my BlackBerry and danced the familiar patterns to create the message:

Bitch, where r u? The crowd is grossly overrated, Cameron's here! Ick!

"I told her that Cameron's here."

"What?" Gil's neck craned to gain a view. Wendy pointed out the actor's location. "Holy shit! Do you know who that is with him? It's that skank weathergirl from Channel 8."

"No way," Wendy said. "Ew. She's got legs like uncooked spaghetti."

"What's her name?"

"Rochelle somebody, I think."

"He brought a pseudo-celebrity victim to the Well?"

"Looks like it." Gil walked off toward the bar, and slid between a severely butch demonette with short blonde hair and curly goat horns, and a cute young gent of USO. He lingered on a well-rehearsed stare into the man's eyes, then leaned across the bar and spoke to Ricardo.

Ricardo Amandine was a burly abovegrounder and tall. He had a cherubic face with cheeks like peaches; in other words, a zombie hottie like Wendy and me. He was a master entrepreneur-an undeadTrump-and turned the crumbling warehouse into the hottest club in the nation. He existed in death, as he had in life, with rich aplomb. Self-confidence dripped from him like marketable sweat; the musk hung around him tucked with dollar signs. I needed a bottle and an ad campaign.

Gil grabbed something paper from the bar, and scribbled a note on it; he handed it to the man next to him like the paper were magical, and pulled from thin air, or from his ass. He winked and strutted back to the table, actually strutted. Desperate.

"How do you make strutting look natural?" I asked.

Gil slid in close to me and whispered, "Practice."

"So what are we talking about?" Wendy asked.

"How about the freaky-ass weather?"

Normally far too banal for cocktail banter, the Seattle weather had gone full-on biblical. Raining or drizzling, at least, every day for the past two months. There had even been a tornado in some rural town that doesn't bear repeating, a farm destroyed, or something. It hardly seemed worth mentioning. Once you're dead there's no need for agriculture.

"I've been wondering why it's been raining so-"

"It is total ass. My hair is-"

"Next!" I shouted; the topic was tiresome regardless of its timeliness. I was sorry to have brought it up. "Zombie plague, anyone?"

"That's just a rumor," Wendy said. She stirred her drink with her pinky and scanned the dance floor, eyes as dull as if she were trying to stay awake in first year botany.

"I heard ..." Gil said, leaning in with that in-the-know conspirator, gotta-listen thing, "... there was another outbreak just last week. Are you bitches out on a taste test, or something? Because someone is doing a bite and run. Anyway, it happened at some coffee shop in Renton. Six caffeine-pumped zombies just chewing through customers and baristas alike. The reapers cleaned it up before the media got there. Although they might have let it go public. Renton could use the exposure."


"What a dump."

Three sips around the table and a new topic popped.

"So, how's your afterlife going?" Gil asked.

I sighed. "Are you serious? That topic is as fresh as Wendy's poon." Wendy punched my leg. I blew a kiss. "Let's talk about your conversation with Ricardo."

"Yeah," Wendy said, chiming in, almost singing the words; we love her. "Let's."

"I just wanted to be sure that he was keeping an eye on Cam. There's no way he can kill the weather-ho and go unnoticed."

"Well yeah, the reapers would be on him in like a minute," I said, "right after the media, in her case. Channel 8 probably has her lo-jacked."


Excerpted from HAPPY HOUR OF THE DAMNED by MARK HENRY Copyright © 2008 by Mark Henry. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

What People are saying about this

Jen Lancaster
Happy Hour of the Damned - is it a comedy? An urban fantasy? A whodunit? Who cares! Mark Henry's written such a clever and engaging story that fans of any genre will totally adore it. Amanda Feral is the freshest, funniest character to come out of fiction since Bridget Jones and my only regret is she's not real and we can't go out for drinks. (Because, really? Zombies are the new black.) In short? I loved this book! (Jen Lancaster, author of Bitter Is The New Black)
Michelle Rowen
Dark, twisted and completely hilarious. I loved this book! (Michelle Rowen, author of Lady & The Vamp)
Jackie Kessler
Gruesome, ghoulish and utterly groundbreaking. Mark Henry is daring and scathingly funny. (Jackie Kessler, author of The Road To Hell)
David Sosnowski
Call them the splatterati - werewolves who always know what to wear, zombies with bodies to die for, and vampires who know their fang shui - just don't call them late when it comes to happy hour, or the drinks might be on you. (David Sosnowski, author of Vamped)
Richelle Mead
Sexy, funny and twisted. You've never read anything like this! (Richelle Mead, author of Succubus On Top)
Cherie Priest
More brisk, batty, raunchy, and catty than a room full of cougars with a margarita machine. Happy Hour of the Damned is funny as hell. (Cherie Priest, author of Not Flesh Nor Feathers)
Jeaniene Frost
Happy Hour of the Damned blends the hilarious narcissism of Seinfeld with Night of the Living Dead. Who knew skincare-obsessed zombies were so much fun? I couldn't read this book fast enough. (Jeaniene Frost, New York Times bestselling author of Halfway to the Grave)

Meet the Author

Mark Henry recently traded a career in the helping profession to scar minds with his fiction. He attributes his ideas to premature exposure to horror movies, and/or witnessing adult cocktail parties in the '70s. He's been further formed by surviving earthquakes, typhoons, and two volcanic eruptions. Happy Hour Of The Damned is his first novel. He, surprisingly, lives and breathes today in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and two dogs. Readers can visit his website at— www.markhenry.us.

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3.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 42 reviews.
Melhay More than 1 year ago
Amanda's had a rough life, and it's not held her back one bit. She's serious about life and a successful partner in an Advertising firm and is serious about life. Until she smells the stinky breathe of that man in the elevator and has a clumsy accident afterward. All to find out... she is now a zombie. So what is a beautiful, successful woman to do now that she is one of the undead? Why, enjoy life to the fullest! But first, to find make-up to take care of the pasty pale skin. But when a friend goes missing will Amanda go in search or try to save her drying skin? Amanda ends up on a mystery case looking into the incidents of what happened to her friends, just to stumble upon a bigger mystery with the pesky mistake zombies showing up in herds at Starbucks. Amanda is a character I enjoyed. She is hard, and self-centered. Amanda makes flying leaps at growth in her character in this book. She makes friends with others similar to her in her manor of thinking. We learn how Amanda meets each of these characters through their fun incidents in the first section of the book. Then after we get to know them we find somewhere along the way Amanda has started to worry about them. And starts to enjoy life. Amanda and her friends make comments and jokes of things that many might find mean, but it is said in fun with these characters. I had to chuckle many times with the jokes made and the priorities of the characters. Oh, and who would want to break into a funeral home? I loved that scene. I enjoy the writing style in this book. Mark Henry uses a unique writing style as we are getting the story from Amanda's view. There are footnotes sporadically through the book in which Amanda makes comments to add her inner thoughts at the moment. For me this was fun and a humorous way to get to know Amanda's character a little better. I will definitely be picking up the second book, Road Trip of the Living Dead.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I have had this book for over a month now and still have not finished it. It is slow moving and all the extra side comments are snarky and unnecessary. To much time is spent on describing things from cupcakes to drink mixes, or to explain what the character meant by a comment. It insults the intelligence and imagination of the readers. Not a book I would recommend unless you are really hard up for something to read.
Shawna_of_the_Dead More than 1 year ago
I ran across this book while working in S/F. I read the back of it and giggled. It sounded like a great combo of my favorite things...strong female leads and ZOMBIES! I saw that there was 2 installments and picked both of them up. I thought the footnotes in this book was a little strange at first but man they were funny. The more I read the more excited I got when I knew a footnote was coming up cause I couldn't wait to see what Amanda was going to say. Mark Henry has been added to my list of authors that I hand sell at work. Give me more fashion crazed party zombies.
alanajoli More than 1 year ago
A good urban fantasy can be like a mixed drink. It's got to have the right flavor-but it's also got to have a lot of kick. Not so much, of course, that you'll regret it the next morning. The characters in Mark Henry's Happy Hour of the Damned might not liken themselves to mixed drinks, but they would certainly appreciate the allusion. Because few zombies appreciate liquor like the heroines in Henry's novel. Rightly called both a "zomedy" and an "urban fantasy attack on political correctness" by the author, Happy Hour of the Damned reads like a Kevin Smith movie, if Kevin Smith were ever to feature the undead elite in his films. Read my full review at http://www.flamesrising.com/happy-hour-damned-review/
ZombieJoe More than 1 year ago
This book has everything one needs for an irreverent little romp through the dark comedy mind. The characters are unabashedly nasty (and make no apologies for it) and are monsters that are really monsters. Sure they may hit the clubs and run through the social clubs of the undead, but they are real, eat your face if you happen to be there kind of monsters. If you are willing to suspend your desire for the "Hollywood Happy Ending" then they are a heck of a lot of fun to follow around as well. They are still monsters though, so keep in mind there will be some gory parts. If my wife could make it through them, I think anyone can. The snark is another story though. Many people just do not get it. It is an unashamed, non-PC look at things with a cynical bite to it that is almost as bad as the zombie bites the main characters pack. If you like dark humor, snark and monsters - this is the book for you.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I must confess that I'm often a bit wary about any book or movie billed as a horror/humor hybrid, as this can be an awfully fine line for a storyteller to walk. However, when both elements are smoothly blended into an original narrative that chugs along with ferocious intent, the results can be pretty spectacular. I believe Mark Henry has pulled off just such a coup with Happy Hour For The Damned, and readers should rejoice. There's a heck of a lot to savor here, from quotable dialogue to hairpin plot turns to vivid atmosphere. All in all, a very good read. I'd strongly recommend anyone who enjoys this book also check out Crimson Orgy by Austin Williams, another new release that somehow manages to make humor and horror work together with killer results.
Guest More than 1 year ago
To be honest, Happy Hour of the Damned by Mark Henry was not the kind of book that I normally read. I love to love my protagonists from the start and you have to fall in love with Amanda Feral- but you do! Also, his style is not one that I've encountered before and not on the top of my list for what I like to read, but his technique made me forget that. Many things kept me reading: 1. His Wit: Mark has a way with words. He creates wonderful imagery with just a few syllables or the turn of a phrase. It kept me laughing, chuckling, snorting, and guffawing (not necessarily in that order). 2. Character Building: Amanda may not be my typical heroine, but he stayed perfectly true to who she is and how she thinks all the while seamlessly making her grow without losing her core. That snot snuck it right in under my nose!! 3. World Building: I've read many amazing worlds having devoured well over 1000 books but Mark's was not only a completely new spin on some old ideas, but it was whole. I put him in the ranks of Tolkein, Anne McCaffrey, Brandon Sanderson, and Diana Pharoah Francis (the 4 people on the top of my list) in the creation of a whole new civilization that I could easily believe (I didn't like coffee before and I'm sure as heck staying away from Starbucks now!). A must read and a must buy.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Happy Hour of the Dammed sounds like my life story right? Amanda Feral ad exec and zombie'yes you heard me!' has perhaps the best fashion sense in the undead world. Balancing on her Loubatians, she doles out advice, solves a mystery and gets romantic all in the Seattle preternatural world.' while managing a square meal or 50' With best friends Gil and Wendy at her side how can a zombie gal lose? Henry's book isn't snarky, it's frickin hilarious, comedy at it's best. Filled with generation x'er references cocktail recipes and life lessons it's a read not to be missed. I literally snorted diet coke out my nose while reading this one folks. On Feb 26th go out, no RUN out and get this one. You won't be sorry!!!
harstan More than 1 year ago
There are two distinct zombie species. First there are the Breathers who just need to exhale on a person to convert them to the living dead and then there are those changed by a bite or scratch. In Seattle advertising executive Amanda Feral was riding an elevator when she was breathed on when she next awakens she has no idea what happened to her. She is walking in confusion on when Gil the vampire stops her and explains to her what she has become. He further informs her that there is a world of the supernatural with stores and clubs for paranormal shoppers that mortals cannot see. Horrified by her suddenly pale sickly complexion, Amanda breaks into a mortuary to obtain some make-up for the recently departed. There she meets fellow zombie Wendy seeking cosmetics too. At a HAPPY HOUR OF THE DAMNED club, the two females meet Lisle the succubus who turns the twosome into the three supernatural musketeers. Though time has a different connotation, not long afterward Lisle sends a text message ¿help¿ to her two pals. They fear for their buddy who vanished immediate after hitting send. As they search for Lisle, Amanda and Wendy uncover a plot to turn the world into a zombie playpen by using a zombie virus. To prevent this from happening, they need to uncover the identity of the mastermind, a devilishly diabolical genius. --- This chick lit urban fantasy is an amusing tale that lampoons chick lit urban fantasies. Amanda and Wendy come across as ¿Valley Girls¿ a la the 1980s movie Night of the Comet while Gil and Lisle add biting humor by satirizing vampire romantic thrillers. The plot is fun with its spoof of save civilization as we know it theme. Mark Henry provides an enjoyable tale in his opening salvo that will have readers who appreciate a lighthearted romp waiting for future happy hour stories. --- Harriet Klausner
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I loved everything about this book! I loved the strong female lead, her crazy friends, the zombies, vamps, weres, etc., the plot, the world building, but I loved the snark the best. The added bonus--there wasn't an angst-filled, whiny, romance ir love triangle to be found!! This was just a great Urban Fantasy to be enjoyed with laughter and with the realization that Amanda verbalizes what we all think at one time or another but never say outloud. Thanks for the great read. I have already purchased the next two books and hope there are more to come!
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