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Death Most Definite

Death Most Definite

4.1 12
by Trent Jamieson

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Steven de Selby has a hangover. Bright lights, loud noise, and lots of exercise are the last thing he wants. But that's exactly what he gets when someone starts shooting at him.

Steven is no stranger to death-Mr. D's his boss after all-but when a dead girl saves him from sharing her fate, he finds himself on the wrong end of the barrel. His job is to guide the


Steven de Selby has a hangover. Bright lights, loud noise, and lots of exercise are the last thing he wants. But that's exactly what he gets when someone starts shooting at him.

Steven is no stranger to death-Mr. D's his boss after all-but when a dead girl saves him from sharing her fate, he finds himself on the wrong end of the barrel. His job is to guide the restless dead to the underworld but now his clients are his own colleagues, friends, and family.

Mr. D's gone missing and with no one in charge, the dead start to rise, the living are hunted, and the whole city teeters on the brink of a regional apocalypse-unless Steven can shake his hangover, not fall for the dead girl, and find out what happened to his boss- that is, Death himself.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Jamieson's debut urban fantasy puts an interesting bureaucratic spin on the afterlife. Recently divorced, Steven de Selby joins the family business, Mortmax, and becomes a "Pomp" who sends dead souls on to their final destination. Then a mysterious entity kills everyone in the Sydney and Melbourne offices of Mortmax, and the beautiful ghost of one of Steven's colleagues warns him that he and the other Brisbane Pomps are next. Not cut out to be a detective or fighter, Steven must dodge the killer while grieving for his murdered family members, handling their workload, fighting off zombie-like Stirrers wearing their bodies, and figuring out who's left that he can trust. Major plot developments are more archetypal than surprising, but they pack no less a wallop for being predictable, and the ending is satisfying while leaving room for further adventures. (Aug.)

Product Details

Publication date:
Death Works Series , #1
Product dimensions:
4.10(w) x 6.70(h) x 1.10(d)

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Read an Excerpt

Death Most Definite

By Jamieson, Trent


Copyright © 2010 Jamieson, Trent
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780316078009




I know something’s wrong the moment I see the dead girl standing in the Wintergarden food court.

She shouldn’t be here. Or I shouldn’t. But no one else is working this. I’d sense them if they were. My phone’s hardly helpful. There are no calls from Number Four, and that’s a serious worry. I should have had a heads-up about this: a missed call, a text, or a new schedule. But there’s nothing. Even a Stirrer would be less peculiar than what I have before me.

Christ, all I want is my coffee and a burger.

Then our eyes meet and I’m not hungry anymore.

A whole food court’s worth of shoppers swarm between us, but from that instant of eye contact, it’s just me and her, and that indefinable something. A bit of deja vu. A bit of lightning. Her eyes burn into mine, and there’s a gentle, mocking curl to her lips that is gorgeous; it hits me in the chest.

This shouldn’t be. The dead don’t seek you out unless there is no one (or no thing) working their case: and that just doesn’t happen. Not these days. And certainly not in the heart of Brisbane’s CBD.

She shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t my gig. This most definitely will not end well. The girl is dead; our relationship has to be strictly professional.

She has serious style.

I’m not sure I can pinpoint what it is, but it’s there, and it’s unique. The dead project an image of themselves, normally in something comfortable like a tracksuit, or jeans and a shirt. But this girl, her hair shoulder length with a ragged cut, is in a black, long-sleeved blouse, and a skirt, also black. Her legs are sheathed in black stockings. She’s into silver jewelery, and what I assume are ironic brooches of Disney characters. Yeah, serious style, and a strong self-image.

And her eyes.

Oh, her eyes. They’re remarkable, green, but flecked with gray. And those eyes are wide, because she’s dead—newly dead—and I don’t think she’s come to terms with that yet. Takes a while: sometimes it takes a long while.

I yank pale ear buds from my ears, releasing a tinny splash of “London Calling” into the air around me.

The dead girl, her skin glowing with a bluish pallor, comes toward me, and the crowd between us parts swiftly and unconsciously. They may not be able to see her but they can feel her, even if it lacks the intensity of my own experience. Electricity crackles up my spine—and something else, something bleak and looming like a premonition.

She’s so close now I could touch her. My heart’s accelerating, even before she opens her mouth, which I’ve already decided, ridiculously, impossibly, that I want to kiss. I can’t make up my mind whether that means I’m exceedingly shallow or prescient. I don’t know what I’m thinking because this is such unfamiliar territory: total here-be-dragons kind of stuff.

She blinks that dead person blink, looks at me as though I’m some puzzle to be solved. Doesn’t she realize it’s the other way around? She blinks again, and whispers in my ear, “Run.”

And then someone starts shooting at me.

Not what I was expecting.

Bullets crack into the nearest marble-topped tables. One. Two. Three. Shards of stone sting my cheek.

The food court surges with desperate motion. People scream, throwing themselves to the ground, scrambling for cover. But not me. She said run, and I run: zigging and zagging. Bent down, because I’m tall, easily a head taller than most of the people here, and far more than that now that the majority are on the floor. The shooter’s after me; well, that’s how I’m taking it. Lying down is only going to give them a motionless target.

Now, I’m in OK shape. I’m running, and a gun at your back gives you a good head of steam. Hell, I’m sprinting, hurdling tables, my long legs knocking lunches flying, my hands sticky with someone’s spilt Coke. The dead girl’s keeping up in that effortless way dead people have: skimming like a drop of water over a glowing hot plate.

We’re out of the food court and down Elizabeth Street. In the open, traffic rumbling past, the Brisbane sun a hard light overhead. The dead girl’s still here with me, throwing glances over her shoulder. Where the light hits her she’s almost translucent. Sunlight and shadow keep revealing and concealing at random; a hand, the edge of a cheekbone, the curve of a calf.

The gunshots coming from inside haven’t disturbed anyone’s consciousness out here.

Shootings aren’t exactly a common event in Brisbane. They happen, but not often enough for people to react as you might expect. All they suspect is that someone needs to service their car more regularly, and that there’s a lanky bearded guy, possibly late for something, his jacket bunched into one fist, running like a madman down Elizabeth Street. I turn left into Edward, the nearest intersecting street, and then left again into the pedestrian-crammed space of Queen Street Mall.

I slow down in the crowded walkway panting and moving with the flow of people; trying to appear casual. I realize that my phone’s been ringing. I look at it, at arm’s length, like the monkey holding the bone in 2001: A Space Odyssey. All I’ve got on the screen is Missed Call, and Private Number. Probably someone from the local DVD shop calling to tell me I have an overdue rental, which, come to think of it, I do—I always do.

“You’re a target,” the dead girl says.

“No shit!” I’m thinking about overdue DVDs, which is crazy. I’m thinking about kissing her, which is crazier still, and impossible. I haven’t kissed anyone in a long time. If I smoked this would be the time to light up, look into the middle distance and say something like: “I’ve seen trouble, but in the Wintergarden, on a Tuesday at lunchtime, c’mon!” But if I smoked I’d be even more out of breath and gasping out questions instead, and there’s some (well, most) types of cool that I just can’t pull off.

So I don’t say anything. I wipe my Coke-sticky hands on my tie, admiring all that je ne sais quoi stuff she’s got going on and feeling as guilty as all hell about it, because she’s dead and I’m being so unprofessional. At least no one else was hurt in the food court: I’d feel it otherwise. Things aren’t that out of whack. The sound of sirens builds in the distant streets. I can hear them, even above my pounding heart.

“This is so hard.” Her face is the picture of frustration. “I didn’t realize it would be so hard. There’s a lot you need—” She flickers like her signal’s hit static, and that’s a bad sign: who knows where she could end up. “If you could get in—”

I reach toward her. Stupid, yeah, but I want to comfort her. She looks so pained. But she pulls back, as though she knows what would happen if I touch her. She shouldn’t be acting this way. She’s dead; she shouldn’t care. If anything, she should want the opposite. She flickers again, swells and contracts, grows snowy. Whatever there is of her here is fracturing.

I take a step toward her. “Stop,” I yell. “I need to—”

Need to? I don’t exactly know what I need. But it doesn’t matter because she’s gone, and I’m yelling at nothing. And I didn’t pomp her.

She’s just gone.


Excerpted from Death Most Definite by Jamieson, Trent Copyright © 2010 by Jamieson, Trent. 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.

Meet the Author

Trent Jamieson has had more than sixty short stories published over the last decade, and, in 2005, won an Aurealis award for his story "Slow and Ache". His most recent stories have appeared in Cosmos Magazine, Zahir, Murky Depths and Jack Dann's anthology Dreaming Again. His collection Reserved for Travelling Shows was released in 2006. He won the 2008 Aurealis Award for best YA short story with his story "Cracks".

Trent was fiction editor of Redsine Magazine, and worked for Prime Books on Kirsten Bishop's multi-award winning novel The Etched City. He's a seasonal academic at QUT teaching creative writing, and has taught at Clarion South. He has a fondness for New Zealand beer, and gloomy music. He lives in Brisbane with his wife, Diana. Trent's blog can be found at www.trentjamieson.com

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Death Most Definite 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 12 reviews.
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harstan More than 1 year ago
Following his divorce, Steven de Selby becomes a Psychopomp at his family firm Mortmax Industries. His job as a Pomp requires him to send the souls of the dead to their final resting place. At the mall for lunch, a female ghost who should not be there warns Steven to run, saving his life, but before he can pomp her she is gone. An unknown entity attacks the employees at the company's offices in Sydney and Melbourne; everyone is killed. The ghost of a former peer warns Steven that he and the other Pomps at the Brisbane office are targeted next. Just an average guy, Steven dodges an apparent supernatural killing machine giving him no time to mourn for the loss of his family as he is a target. He also struggles with an impossible backlog of souls since the organization was downsized by the enemy. Then there are the Stirrers wearing the bodies of his loved ones: Steven knows being a Pomp is an unsafe occupation at the moment. This is a fun tongue in cheek Australian urban fantasy whose underlying premise is soul departing has been privatized by "Mr. D". The story line is fast-paced and filled with straightforward action as the reader will not be surprised by events, but will enjoy each soul raising escapade that Steven seems to get caught up in. Fans will appreciate his adventures to avoid pomping himself with few others around to do so as death becomes him. Harriet Klausner