I Woke Up at My Funeral to Crash It

PROLOGUE

The first thing I noticed when I woke up dead was the taste of satin.

It was cloying, synthetic, a cheap, chemical sweetness that coated my tongue.

I tried to spit, but my muscles wouldn't obey.

My entire body felt like a lead statue, encased in something tight and unyielding.

The second thing was the darkness.

Not just the absence of light, but a thick, tangible blackness that pressed against my eyelids and filled my lungs.

It smelled of cedar wood, formaldehyde, and freshly turned earth.

Panic, a cold, sharp serpent, uncoiled in the pit of my stomach.

It slithered up my throat, but I couldn't scream.

I couldn't even draw a breath to fuel it.

My lungs were useless, unresponsive bellows.

Wait.

If I'm not breathing, how am I panicking?

If I'm dead, how am I thinking?

A voice, cool and impossibly calm, echoed in the silent theater of my new consciousness.

It wasn't a sound, but a pure, crystalline thought downloaded directly into my awareness.

My memories—or rather, the memories of Veronica Mayes, flooding my consciousness like a broken dam—answered the question.

A winding country road at night.

The blinding glare of headlights.

The horrifying screech of tires, followed by the sickening, final crunch of metal and bone.

And faces.

Garrett’s, his handsome features twisted not in horror, but in cold, impatient calculation.

And Sadie... her adopted sister, Sadie, her hands gripping the steering wheel, her eyes wide with a terrifying cocktail of fear and exhilaration.

They had killed her.

Killed *me*.

And now, judging by the five-star accommodations, I was attending my own funeral from the V.I.P. box.

A muffled thud vibrated through the wood just inches from my face.

Footsteps, slow and hesitant, on a hard floor.

"Are you sure she's really dead?"

The voice was Sadie's, a little too high, a little too breathy.

It was the voice of someone trying to sound bereaved but failing, the underlying tremor not of grief, but of pure, unadulterated anxiety.

"Of course she is," Garrett's voice replied, a low, soothing murmur designed to calm a nervous accomplice. "We drove over her three times to be sure. The car is a wreck. She is... gone."

The footsteps crept closer.

A faint, metallic scraping sound, like nails on a latch.

My God, she was trying to open the coffin.

The little ghoul wanted to peek.

To make absolutely, positively sure her dear sister wasn't going to pop up and spoil the inheritance.

A wicked, unfamiliar thrill—a feeling that was entirely my own, not Veronica's—shot through me.

Alright, Sadie.

You want confirmation?

I'll give you a confirmation that will haunt you for the rest of your miserable life.

A surge of alien strength flooded the leaden limbs.

It felt like flipping a switch, power coursing through dormant circuits.

I pushed.

The heavy, polished mahogany lid groaned in protest, its seal breaking with a soft whoosh of displaced air.

Then, with a final shove, it swung open.

I sat up, the musty air of the mausoleum filling lungs that a moment ago had been useless.

I blinked, adjusting to the dim, gothic light filtering through a stained-glass window.

And I smiled, a wide, predatory smile, directly at my horrified sister.

"Surprise."

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