Under The Final Moon

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780758281142
  • Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corporation
  • Publication date: 8/5/2014
  • Series: Underworld Detective Agency Series
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Pages: 352
  • Sales rank: 217,153
  • Product dimensions: 4.10 (w) x 6.70 (h) x 0.90 (d)

Read an Excerpt

Under The Final Moon

The Underworld Detection Agency Chronicles


By HANNAH JAYNE

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

Copyright © 2014 Hannah Schwartz
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8115-9


CHAPTER 1

I could feel the cold stripe of fear going up my spine—like icy fingers walking slowly up vertebra after vertebra.

"Is she dead?" The voice was a faint whisper, but it throbbed through my head, singeing the ache that was already there.

"Maybe we should go."

I hoped that they would. I prayed that they would. I remained as still as possible, breath barely trembling through my body, willing my heart to thrum silently because I knew that vampires could hear everything. Every little whisper, every little thought. Please go, please go, I pleaded silently.

And then the icy breath was at my ear. "Sophie!"

Now the voice was incredibly loud and I jumped straight up until the tops of my thighs mashed against the underside of my desk. I missed the chair coming back down and flopped unceremoniously onto my ass.

"What do you want?" I glowered, rubbing my tailbone and seeing Nina and Kale through narrowed dagger eyes.

"Were you asleep?" asked Kale, the Underworld Detection Agency receptionist with a newly pink pageboy haircut, cocking her head so that her hair brushed against her cheek.

I pressed the pads of my fingertips against my temples, making small circles. My head kept aching.

"I was trying to. I have a headache."

Nina rolled her eyes and hopped up onto the corner of my desk, her tiny butt and weightless body not making a sound. "Are you still trying to claim PTSD for the whole back-to-school thing? Get over it. You closed up the Hell mouth or whatever, and never even had to wear the school uniform."

"What do you guys want?"

Nina whipped out a nail file from I-don't-know-where and began working on her right hand. She blew a bubble from the wad of gum she was chewing. After twelve years with Nina LaShay as my coworker, roommate, and best friend, I'll never get comfortable seeing a vampire blow purple Hubba Bubba bubbles through blade-sharp incisors. It just looks weird.

"I'm hiding out from Vlad. He's got an all-fangs-on-deck VERM meeting and I have much better things to do than sit in a stuffy conference room with a bunch of dead guys talking about ascots and their graveyard dirt and glory days."

I grinned despite the nap interruption. The Vampire Empowerment and Restoration Movement (or VERM, for short), was Vlad's baby. Vlad, Nina's sixteen-slash-hundred-and-thirteen-year-old nephew, my boss, Kale's paramour, and the roommate who would never leave, pushed the movement, which sought to restore vampires back to their broody, Count Dracula countenance and insisted its adherents wear fashions that Nina couldn't abide. She was a member by virtue of being a vampire and being Vlad's aunt, but she studiously avoided their meetings.

"And I came in to tell you that Sampson wants to see you," Kale said, swishing her hair from side to side.

Kale might be a teenager with hot-pink hair and a stomach-churning crush on a brooding vampire with a penchant for draconian clothing, but she is also strong. Supernaturally so. While some nineteen-year-olds dabble in Wicca and black eyeliner, Kale likes to keep things fresh with frilly skirts, cotton-candy-colored hair, and an inner power so tremendous she can blow the doors off metal lockers with a swish of her hand. She is under the tutelage of our other resident witch, Lorraine, who can conjure up anything from Tom Cruise to Tupperware. The latter because in her cauldron-free time she's the number-one Tupperware salesperson in the whole of Santa Clara County.

But, I digress.

While Kale looked at me earnestly, her pierced dimples twinkling, my heart lodged itself in my throat. A meeting with Pete Sampson, hometown werewolf and head of the Underworld Detection Agency, could only mean one of two things: I was fired, or yet another mysterious, gory, and seemingly supernatural murder had happened within San Francisco's seven square miles.

I would much prefer the former.

I'd like to say Sampson called on me because I could sniff out bad guys like a mouse sniffs out cheese, but that wouldn't be quite right. I find the bad guys all right, but usually just seconds before they try to bleed me dry, blow me up, or stake me through the heart. That last one is particularly bad since I am not a vampire. Or a werewolf. I'm just me, Sophie Lawson, sole breather in the Underworld Detection Agency, runner of the Fallen Angels Division, Sub-Par Napper.

"Do you know what he wants?" I asked, looking from Nina to Kale.

Kale just shrugged, but Nina looked over her shoulder at me, her ink-black hair falling over her slim shoulders. "Someone's probably dead again."

Nina LaShay: not one for pep talks.

Though the Underworld Detection Agency had a fairly decent record of "Days Without a Workplace Accident," our clients never fared as well—which isn't actually as bad as it sounds. Since most of our clients were dead already, second time round was par for the course. But, while we were the number-one agency for afterlife insurance, general demon protection, and keeping all the things with extra eyes, teeth, or horns on the down low, we were also number one with the repetitive paperwork.

I got carpal tunnel syndrome just thinking about it.

I headed down the hall toward Sampson's office, holding my breath as I passed the break room, where the VERM meeting was in full swing. Though our bylaws clearly state that vampire employees are not to eat, taste, or kill me, you know there's always one nutter holding a grudge and that the rule had to come from someone not abiding by it. No one looked up as I passed, and I sported a seconds-long inner grin until I almost ran headlong into a sweet, sparkly little pixie who made a cut-throat motion when I glanced up at her.

Pixies can be total bitches.

I went to make my usual shimmy around the hole in the floor where a senile wizard had blown himself up—like everyone else, the UDA was low on funds so the hole was last on the fix-it list—but stopped dead, my mouth dropping open.

"What's this?"

There was actually a piece of caution tape up, slung on a couple of folding chairs to make a work zone. A guy in a hard hat was up to his knees in the hole, diligently sawing away at one jagged edge.

He looked up and I could see from his gaunt, slightly green face and the hard cleft in his pointed chin that he was a goblin. From what I'd heard, they were brilliant at precision work.

"We're fixing the hole," he told me, his gray-green eyes widening as he took me in. I flushed, sudden embarrassment burning the tops of my ears and, I was certain, turning my pale skin an unattractive lobster red.

"So it's true." The goblin pushed back his hard hat and scratched at the little tuft of hair on his head. "The San Francisco branch really does have a breather on staff."

The Underworld Detection Agency is like the clearinghouse for everything that goes bump in the night or bursts into flames during the day. We service everyone from Abatwas (teeny, tiny little adorable things that could unhinge their jaws and swallow you whole) to zombies (who most often leave a hunk of their jaw while trying to eat a Twix in the lunchroom).

We don't, however, serve humans. As a matter of fact, the Underworld Detection Agency—and all of its clients—are relatively unknown to the human world. I know what you're thinking—how do people miss a three-foot-tall troll walking down Market Street? The answer is a thin, mystical veil that prevents humans from registering what they see. You see little person; I see troll. You see homeless guy pushing a shopping cart full of cans; I see zombie pushing a shopping cart full of collectable zombie body parts (seriously, they drop stuff everywhere).

So what makes me so different? I can see through the veil. And in case you're thinking I'm some medium or Carol Ann or ghost whisperer, let me tell you that I am not. I'm a one-hundred-percent normal breather who is immune to magic: I can't do it; it can't be done to me.

Okay, so maybe I'm only ninety-nine percent normal.

I steeled myself as I approached Pete Sampson's office and knocked on the door's frame before popping it open.

"Ah, Sophie!" Sampson looked up when I walked in. He grinned widely, tugging at the collar of his button-down shirt. He was a werewolf, but only after business hours. And he was incredibly responsible about it, too, which was why there was a set of industrial-strength shackles double bolted to the wall behind the credenza. But right now he was regular old Sampson, close-cropped, blond hair, sparkling eyes that crinkled at the sides when he smiled, pristine dark suit.

I sat down with a nervous smile pasted on my face.

"You okay?"

I nodded, fairly certain that if I opened my mouth the words who's dead now? would come springing out.

Sampson went immediately business-y. "So I was going over your third-quarter performance review and I have to say—"

I felt my spine go immediately rigid. Vlad was my boss at the office, but I screamed at him to pick up his socks at home. He may have been one hundred and thirteen chronologically, but he would always be a sloppy, leaves-crap-all-over-the-house, sixteen-year-old boy in looks and at heart (if he had one). Weren't teens revenge seekers?

"Uh, sir, about that," I said, toeing a line in the carpet. "I can explain."

I couldn't, but I was just trying to buy some time.

Sampson's dark brows went up. "Explain? I was just going to say that I am really impressed with your progress. Not just in the community, but in the office, and personally as well."

I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding, and every bone in my body seemed to turn to liquid. "Really?" I grinned.

Now, most bosses wouldn't wrap "personal growth" up into the employee ball of wax, but Sampson and I went way back. Not in years so much as in near-death experiences, but one was very much like the other and I had come to think of Pete Sampson as a father, since mine was an absentee dick.

"Of course. You've worked on cases diligently and successfully. You've got glowing reviews from two of your clients, which is especially good because—"

"I know." I wrinkled my nose. "Because most of our clients give me a wide berth, thinking that I bring death and destruction to creatures of the Underworld."

I'd had a very hard time convincing my previous clients that I didn't bring death so much as it followed me around, like I had some sort of hell-fury GPS tracker shoved in my gut. It took a bit of a toll on my client list—especially when my clients kept dying.

"So, taking all that into account, I'd like to congratulate you on another successful year here at the Underworld Detection Agency."

I gaped. "That's it?" The words tumbled out of my mouth before my brain had a chance to examine them or reel them back in.

Sampson's eyebrows went up. "Uh ..."

"No, no!" I jumped up. "I didn't mean that like, 'That's it? How about a raise?' I meant, that's it? You know, every other time you've called me in here someone was dead or I ended up back in high school. Which was kind of like dying a little myself." I felt the trembling terror of mean girls in pleated plaid skirts wash over me, and I snapped the bad-memory rubber band I kept around my left wrist.

Sampson shot me a relaxed smile. "That's true. Why don't you take the rest of the day off since I terrified you, and I'll see what I can do about that raise?"

I was stunned. "Really? Really, Sampson?"

"Yeah, take a long weekend. You deserve it."

No sea of death, murder weapons, or crazed schoolgirls and a long weekend? My eyes went to the ceiling.

"What are you doing?" Sampson wanted to know.

"This can't be right," I told him. "I'm looking for the piano that's going to fall on my head."

When none did, I grabbed my shoulder bag, said something that may have sounded like, "See you Monday, suckas!" and hopped into the elevator. As the Underworld Detection Agency is a cool thirty-five stories below the San Francisco Police Department, I used the long ride up to mop my red hair from "business chic" into "reality-TV marathon ponytail," and shrugged out of my suit jacket. I was halfway to couch bound when the elevator doors slid open at the police station vestibule, to perfectly frame Alex Grace.

Alex Grace—fallen angel, delicious earthbound detective—the man I had an on-again, off-again, more-off-than-on-or-something-in-between relationship with over the last few (mortal) years. We had moved past that awkward, bumbling, he-caught-me-in-my-panties stage of our relationship and into a more mature, open, adult one.

But I tended to have a habit of crashing us back down to bumbling and awkward every spare chance I got.

"Alex!" I said, trying to keep my cool as every synapse in my head shot urgent and improbable messages: Kiss him! Tear his clothes off! Maniacally mash the Close Door button and hide under your desk!

Alex had his hands on his hips, his police badge winking on his belt, his leather holster nestled up agat the firm plane of his are-you-kidding-me chest. His shoulders looked even broader, even more well muscled if that were possible, making his square jaw look that much more chiseled. His lips—full, blush-pink lips that I had pressed mine against more than once—were set in a hard, thin line. His ice-blue eyes were sharp.

"We need to talk."

While normally those words would make me swoon and rethink today's lingerie choices (white cotton panties dotted with pastel pink hearts; no-nonsense—and no cleavage—beige bra), the set of his jaw let me know that this wouldn't be a tea-and-cookies kind of chat.

My stomach flopped in on itself.

"And a kind hello to you, too."

Alex led me to his office, one hand clamped around my elbow as if I might dart away or steal something at any moment. It was awkward and annoying, but I guess he had just cause: I may have pilfered a cup of coffee, a jelly donut, or a piece of pivotal evidence in an open investigation once or twice.

I sat down in the hard plastic visitor's chair, and he sat behind his desk in his I'm-the-boss chair, arms crossed, eyes holding mine.

"What do you know about Lance D. Armentrout?"

Heat pricked all over my body. Though I had just finished that case at a local high school, going undercover as a substitute teacher, I'd "taught" English, not social studies.

And either way, I had never done well on pop quizzes.

"Uh, he's the prime minister of—"

Alex cocked a brow. "I'm not testing you, I'm asking you. Never mind. Armentrout was a homeless vet who took up residence at the bottom of the Tenderloin."

San Francisco's Tenderloin district is just north of Market Street, sitting somewhere between seedy and squalid. Most tourists avoid it and some youthful hipsters or city planners were always trying to gentrify it, but nothing ever took. It was generally a spot where the homeless gathered, some drugs changed hands, or a hooker shivered on a street corner, but not necessarily a hot spot for major crime.

I felt that unfortunate spark of bad walking up my spine. "Was?"

Alex opened his ever-present manila file folder and handed me a photograph. "It was two weeks ago Sunday. The ME's report just came in."

I glanced down at the photo and immediately wished I hadn't. It was a half-charred body sitting on the sidewalk, what remained of his torso propped up against a pink stucco wall advertising Panaderia Chavez. Bile burned at the back of my throat. I slid the photo back to Alex.

"What happened? I mean, he obviously was burned to death but ..."

Alex shook his head. "Witnesses said it was spontaneous combustion."

"Spontaneous combustion? That's not a real thing—is it? And wouldn't that mean—" I made the kindest gesture I could think of for a person exploding.

"Yes, it exists—sort of, and no, it doesn't always involve exploding. But it wasn't the fire that killed him."

"It wasn't?"


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Under The Final Moon by HANNAH JAYNE. Copyright © 2014 Hannah Schwartz. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
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.

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Sort by: Showing all of 4 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 8, 2014

    I dont remember..

    I don't remember sophie being so whiny! First few chapters were good and then it was pretty much boo hoo why me..where was the investigstions? This book kept repeating the same theme. Nothing went forward and then poof its solved. Sophie didn't grown in this book, she went backwards. I'm afraid to read the other books again tho I don't see how I coulda missed all these annoyances. Story coulda been done in 10 chapters not 22.

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  • Posted September 1, 2014

    Working for the UDA, Sophie has made plenty of enemies but a gir

    Working for the UDA, Sophie has made plenty of enemies but a girl can’t freak out everything… so that the fact that all hell is breaking loose is not the end of the world - right? 
    This steady to fast paced plot keeps reader on the edge of freaking out with lots of suspense, drama, humor and melodrama.  The author describes the story with well written scenes and details that capture the imagination and the well orchestrated drama and suspense draw the reader deeper into the excitement as the strong compelling characters grab the readers and ensure that they are caught up in all the apocalyptic drama.
    Sophie is still torn between the men in her life; her Vessel of Souls guardian, Will Sherman and the fallen angel Alex Grace and anytime they both get in same room the reader can practically feel the male posturing going on which adds some more spice to the story.  But of course, Sophie is bombarded with people trying to kill her, kidnap her, do unspeakable things to her, oh and let’s not forget the devil… really the girls doesn’t have time for romance. The reader can’t help but get caught up in all the drama and excitement of Sophie’s life…I mean look who are friends are and wow, her father is definitely in drama inducing territory.  
    Spine tingling tension builds throughout the story as danger escalates and all hell breaks loose on the city of San Francisco causing Sophie and her friends to believe that maybe just maybe her father is up to something which could mean the end of the world.  The author creates lots of twists and turns to keep the reader guessing and there is never a dull moment with Sophie adding lots of excitement and fun to the story because trouble just seems to follow that girl around…doesn’t it?

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  • Posted August 8, 2014

    Under The Final Moon, Hannah Jayne Review from jeannie zelos boo

    Under The Final Moon, Hannah Jayne
    Review from jeannie zelos book reviews

    I've read all of this series from the first book, and loved each part, from Sophie, klutzy but so genuine, to Vamp Nina, self obessed but yet when the chips are down Neens is there, the agency staff- an assorted bunch with some funny quirks, and of course the delicous pair of Guardian Will and fallen angel Alex. Sophie wants them both, but as Nina keeps saying, she has to choose....and who can forget little Cha-Cha, that dog is a real star !
    So, onto the final part, the espisode that all the others have been leading up to, and her enemies are now out in force. In the past there's been more or less one (type) of enemy at a time, now they're round every corner, in every bar, following her every move and the Agency feels they just can't deal with it. Poor Sophie, gives her all and then she's on her own. She understands, but it's still hard to accept when it seems she can't even go for a consoling drink without getting attacked, and Will and Alex are dealing with the aftermath of all the city's fires and earthquakes. Seems Sophie's dad is finally ready to visit – and that puts her in danger. She knows what dear old dad wants and its not a friendly “hello, I've missed you....” - but something far more life threatening.
    There was lots going on in this book, but somehow it didn't hook me as past episodes have. I'm not sure why, maybe just the multiple enemy scenes, or perhaps that Will and Alex didn't seem as connected with Sophie as they usually are – they were both very busy with other things. The ending comes over well, I didn't see that happeneing which was good, but overall I just felt underwhelemed after the brilliance of the earlier books. I expected to feel more emotional, more sad at saying goodbye to the cast but it just seemed to happen so suddenly that I was taken by surprise.
    Stars: Four, its still a good read and one that wraps everything up well.
    ARC supplied via Netgalley

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  • Posted August 5, 2014

    more from this reviewer

    Under the Final Moon is the 6th book in the Underworld Detection

    Under the Final Moon is the 6th book in the Underworld Detection Agency and evil is about to rear its ugly head.




    Sophie Lawson thought her life couldn't get more complicated, she thought wrong. Cerberus, earthquakes and spontaneous human combustion are just a few of her troubles these days. Throw in a visit from daddy, the devil, and it makes for a packed filled plot.




    Under the Final Moon is a fast paced, action intense, humor driven storyline. The characters are quirky and fun. The story had an intensity that drew me in but for some reason I didn't connect to the characters actual plight...the vacillation between Alex and Will didn't help. 




    In the end, Under the Final Moon is a fun, exciting, urban fantasy with a dark and menacing vibe... Entertaining and enjoyable, Jayne once again plunges us deep into her imaginative world. 3.5 Stars

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