Read Chapter 2 of Undead Impact!

In the run up to the book release (in two weeks! Gah!) here’s another sneak peek.

Undead Impact, Chapter 2

A woman’s upturned face in the middle section of luxury capsules stopped Araminta in her tracks. The woman was quite large, well dressed, and looked unwell. Not a little under the weather, but should be in bed unwell. Sweat beaded the brow of her flushed crimson face. She breathed through her mouth, just shy of panting.

“Are you all right?”

The woman looked up. Her brown piggy eyes narrowed as she inspected Araminta. Araminta could see the moment the woman decided she was beneath her notice. She looked away, not bothering to reply.

And a dreadful flight to you, too, Araminta thought, annoyance getting the better of her. A man stood near the last luxury capsule, blocking the aisle while arranging the contents of his overhead bin. Araminta waited, growing anxious as a flight attendant glanced her way. Finally, the man turned to take his seat. “Oh, pardon me. I didn’t see you there.”

He was tall, with sandy-blond hair combed back from a high forehead. The structure of his face was both rugged and almost pretty, and his perfect white teeth could trigger a migraine. He held a folded copy of The Financial Times, its trademark light-pink paper seeming a shade darker in the low light of the plane. The visible portion of the headline read: CURFEWS IN SCOTLAND AND, with the rest hidden around the fold. Araminta didn’t care about CURFEWS IN SCOTLAND AND. She just wanted to stow her bag and collapse into her premium economy seat.

She sidled by and reached 10-C. She dropped her purse in the seat, opened the overhead bin, and groaned. Confronted by a wall of wheelie bags, jackets, and rucksacks, no free space remained. She tried the next bin, and the next, but they were full, too. She would have to check her bag after all. She’d definitely miss her connection in New York.

“Excuse me.” It was the man from first class, standing in the aisle beside his luxury capsule. His eyes were a bright sea-glass blue. “There’s room in my bin.”

Surprise shot through Araminta’s sagging body. “Really? You’d do that?”

He smiled. It suited him. “No problem at all.”

“No, no, I’ll get it,” she said when she realized he was coming to fetch the bag. “This is so kind of you. I might just make my connection now.”

“The overhead bins are awful in economy,” he said, then extended his hand. “Thomas Blackwell. Very pleased to meet you.”

Araminta took in his bespoke suit trousers, thousand-pound shoes, buttery silk shirt, and conservative tie as she introduced herself. She was pretty sure Thomas Blackwell had never flown economy in his life and pegged him as an investment banker. He’s probably going to want my number, she thought, gripping the bag to lift and stow. It would only be fair, even if it meant a dull evening of him droning on about what he’d no doubt call “Financial instruments.”

A different flight attendant seemed to materialize from thin air; a disapproving scowl marred his otherwise pleasant face. “Ma’am, you can’t do that.”

“Pardon me?” Araminta said.

“You can’t use an overhead bin in a different class compartment. I’ll see if there’s anywhere to put your carry-on or check it.”

Before her brain caught up, Thomas said, “It’s not a problem. We’re traveling together but couldn’t get both seats in first class.”

Araminta blinked in surprise.

“I— Well— I’m sorry,” the flight attendant said, looking anything but. “Those are the rules.”

When Thomas spoke again, he oozed entitled charm like some people ooze desperation. “I’m sure you can make an exception just this once.”

The flight attendant looked at Araminta askance. He didn’t believe Thomas, but he couldn’t press the point without calling him a liar. Calling luxury capsule passengers liars was not the done thing, and they all knew it. Thomas took the bag from her and stowed it. Fixing her with his sea-glass blue eyes, now alight with mischief, he squeezed her shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to swap seats with me, darling?”

Araminta had to smother a bark of laughter. He was taking the charade a bit far. What would he do if she said yes? “No, you’re tired. You need to be rested for your meeting when we land.”

A conspiratorial smile curled one corner of Thomas’ mouth before he winked and disappeared.

That’s worth giving him my number when he asks.

Araminta turned away, smiling, only to find a tall, almost too thin woman standing in the aisle at the end of her row. She muttered under her breath, wrestling with the door of the same overhead compartment that Araminta had tried. Her fitted, long-sleeved cashmere sweater looked incredibly expensive. So did the low-rise jeans she wore. No tags or decorations adorned the jeans, apart from two decorative rivets on the waistband. Araminta squinted, then sucked in a breath. Are those ALAÏA? They cost over a thousand pounds…

There was a low snap, then the overhead bin’s door stopped pushing back against the tall woman’s shove. She turned, only to see Araminta squinting at her like a farsighted opossum. The sweater had a sleek crisscross sash from the shoulders that wrapped around the woman’s slim waist, then circled back over her hips to knot into a sash at the front.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman said in an American accent, trying—and failing—to smile a greeting. She slipped into the center seat beside Araminta.

One of Araminta’s colleagues was a devotee of Vogue magazine, so she looked at it from time to time. The woman in the seat beside her wore at least three thousand pounds worth of clothing. That figure didn’t include her shoes because Araminta hadn’t gotten that far. What was she doing in premium economy?

Beneath the stale cabin air Araminta caught a whiff of the woman’s perfume: dark and resinous, cedar and cracked pepper and a whisper of incense. She didn’t know it, not that she was a perfume expert. Given the woman’s clothes, Araminta thought it probably wasn’t one found behind a department-store counter. It smelled expensive in the same way gracious country manors with grand staircases, nineteen bedrooms, and heaps of diamond-pane lattice glass windows felt expensive. Understated without needing to say such a home would always be out of one’s reach.

Intrigued by the mystery of the very expensive clothes, Araminta forgot to pick up her purse from her seat before sitting down. Now she hovered over her seat, trying to dig her purse out from under her bottom. She cast a surreptitious glance at her seatmate. The woman possessed a stunning, ethereal beauty, but her eyes were red and puffy. Her chin wrinkled with the effort of trying not to cry. Her straight black hair was styled in a severe bob with bangs that hit just below her cheekbones. High ones, of course, below tilted brown eyes with the epicanthic fold of her Asian ancestry. Her lips were painted a deep red that most women couldn’t pull off. She was so high-fashion stylish, so utterly put together, that her puffy, red eyes and obvious distress were all the more jarring.

“Are you okay?” Araminta asked, still yanking on her purse that refused to pull free.

Her voice came out like a bird’s high warble. “I’m fine.” Tears flooded her eyes. When she wiped them away, her mascara and eyeliner didn’t smudge across her face like Araminta’s would have done.

“You don’t seem all right,” Araminta said. “I have tissues in my purse if I can get the bloody thing out from under my bum.”

“No, really, it’s okay,” the young woman said, placing a hand on Araminta’s arm. “I’m fine, it’s just—” She burst into tears, sniffing loudly. “My girlfriend broke up with me. At brunch, in the middle of the restaurant. I was lucky to get a seat on this flight.”

“Bloody hell,” Araminta said, finally yanking her purse free. She turned to her seatmate, affronted on her behalf. “What a wanker!”

Her unhappy seatmate shrugged. “I didn’t even see it coming.”

Araminta dug through her purse. Where on Earth were those tissues? “I’m so sorry. Breakups are awful. If I’m drowning my sorrows after one, I drink champagne. Then, if he hears about it, he’ll think I’m celebrating. I’m Araminta, by the way.”

“Oh gosh, I’m a crying mess and I’m rude. I’m Chloe.”

The elderly woman sitting at the window leaned over. She handed Chloe a tissue. “Here you go, love.”

“Thank you,” Chloe said, sniffling. “That’s so kind of you.”

“It’s nothing, dear. There are better fish in the sea for a girl as pretty as you.”

Chloe blew her nose. She dabbed at her face and took a deep breath, seeming a little more collected. Thinking a change of subject might steady her some more, Araminta said, “By the way, your perfume is gorgeous.”

Chloe gave a wet, not-entirely-together-yet sort of laugh. “Roja. Danger Pour Femme. It’s—God, it’s stupid expensive but I love it.” She shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “The house sends it to some of us on shoots.”

On shoots. Araminta turned the phrase over. Maybe she worked in fashion? The clothes fit with the idea, and she was certainly beautiful enough to be a model. “It’s great when that sort of thing finds you,” she said, curiosity piqued. Just how expensive was stupid expensive?

Chloe didn't bat an eye. “Six hundred dollars a bottle. More, for the bigger size.” She said it the way she might have read off a bus timetable, no shame in it, no lowered voice. She was so blithely, cheerfully American about it that Araminta nearly laughed. “It’s a nice perk, for sure. I’d have a hard time justifying spending that much.”

“It suits you,” Araminta said, and meant it.

Something in Chloe's face loosened at that—not the crying, but the braced, humiliated set of her shoulders. Araminta smiled on the inside: mission accomplished. She had given up the tissue search as they spoke, pretty sure it would never bear fruit. She sent a quick text to Imogen to let her know that she’d be arriving in New York tomorrow morning, and Pittsburgh shortly thereafter. She flipped the top of her water bottle, squeezing some water into her mouth as the plane pushed away from the gate. Then she shoved the water bottle between her leg and the seat’s inner armrest. Petite as she was, doing so squeezed her tighter into the seat. If this was what passed as premium economy, she didn’t like to think about taking a flight this long in standard. Poor Chloe beside her had legs that went on for miles. At least these bulkhead seats had more legroom.

Araminta found her compact in her purse and took a quick look at her makeup in the tiny mirror. Her chestnut-brown skin wasn’t too shiny with sweat, thank God, and the soft bronze highlighter she’d applied on the train still caught the light on her cheekbones. Her natural curls—thick, black, and cascading past her shoulders—had survived the morning’s chaos better than expected, though a few coils had gone rogue near her temple. She smoothed them down with a fingertip, but they resumed their rebellious positions again. Warm bronze lipstick still shaded her pillowy lips, though the center had faded a bit.

Araminta knew she wasn’t Chloe-level stunning. She had no designer clothes, and would never look like she’d stepped off a runway, but her mascara wasn’t running down her face. That was a win.

She snapped the compact shut and dropped it back into her purse. Weariness settled over her body, heavy as hardening lava. Now that her panic-fueled race through the airport had ended, the lack of sleep hit her all at once. She felt for the lightning bolt necklace at the hollow of her throat. The gold charm felt warm between her fingers. In their first year at university, Imogen had wanted to get those necklaces with two halves of a heart. Something to signify their twinness, she’d said. Araminta had scoffed half-hearts were so cringe and jokingly suggested matching Harry Potter lightning bolts. She hadn’t thought Imogen would go for it—Harry Potter wasn’t her twin’s thing—but she’d surprised Araminta by agreeing.

Araminta closed her eyes, still holding the charm. Imogen had lost her necklace a few years later. Araminta knew it wasn’t accidentally on purpose; that wasn’t Imogen’s style. Imogen had inquired at the jewelers, but they didn’t carry the lightning bolts anymore. Ever since, they both looked on and off, but neither of them had ever found a replacement.

She’d see Imogen soon enough. Maybe they’d find one while she was visiting. Her muscles relaxed. Not quite like a jelly, but getting there. Sleep usually eluded her on planes, but she was so knackered she might get lucky. Soft groans and the low rustling of settling passengers reminded Araminta of the babbling brook recording she listened to at night to fall asleep. Just as she felt herself drifting away, she heard a familiar voice.

“Excuse me.”

She opened her eyes, bracing for the annoyed flight attendant, but found herself looking into the sea-glass blue eyes of Thomas Blackwell from first class. He should be in his seat, not standing in the aisle holding a cut-crystal cocktail glass while the plane taxied to the runway. A wedge of lime floated among the ice cubes. “I thought you might like a drink.”

“Oh,” Araminta said, surprised. “That’s very… That would be lovely.”

“I hope gin and tonic is all right. Sorry about the ice. Americans put ice in everything.”

Araminta smiled, accepting the drink. The smooth indentations of the cool crystal pressed against her fingers. “You’d better take your seat before the flight attendant bites your head off.”

“I can take that guy,” Thomas said, flashing that dazzling smile again.

When he turned to go, Araminta caught his arm. Thomas Blackwell turned back, a flash of pleased surprise in his eyes. Araminta curled her finger at him, indicating that he should come closer. When she leaned in, she could smell his cologne. He smelled good. Really good, like spice and newly turned earth. “The girl next to me just got dumped. Is it too much to ask—”

Thomas Blackwell’s posh, buttery voice charged the centimeters between them like the air before a storm. “Consider it done.”

A spark flashed in his blue eyes, blue eyes she couldn’t rip her gaze from. Their faces were so close that for a moment she thought he would kiss her. A hot blush flushed beneath Araminta’s skin. He straightened up, grinned, and left for his seat. Then he paused before disappearing through the curtain separating the peasants from the quality. “I meant what I said. If you want to swap seats for a bit, I’m just over here.”

Araminta couldn’t help but grin. Chloe said, “Who’s that?”

“Thomas Blackwell. I just met him. He let me put my carry-on in the bin above his seat.”

“I think he’d claim you as his personal item if he could get away with it,” Chloe said.

“I think he might ask for my number,” Araminta said, aware that she couldn’t seem to wipe the grin from her face.

Chloe laughed. “Bringing you drinks, offering his seat, and the way he smiled at you? He’s asking for your number.”

Could she do worse, even with the banking bit? Yes, she thought, Graham’s stunt still top of mind. She squeezed the lime into her drink. Thomas Blackwell was kind, or at least eager. His readiness to get Chloe a drink demonstrated that. Offering to share one’s luxury capsule with a stranger was no small thing. She could never accept, no matter how tempting his offer. Agreeing to a theoretical date was a fair trade. Taking his ten times more expensive seat was not. She was just about to take a sip of her drink when she paused. She held it out to Chloe. “You need this more than me, I think.”

Chloe shook her head. “I’m a Scotch girl. Even if I did like gin, I’m not messing with Prince Charming’s moves.”

When the captain announced it was safe to leave her seat, she’d have to pop her head over the wall of Thomas Blackwell’s luxury capsule and ask if he’d get Chloe a Scotch. The flight attendant would probably tell her off, but she didn’t care. “I have a feeling he’ll get you a drink as well.”

Chloe smiled, a real one this time. “Thanks for being so nice.”

Araminta waved Chloe’s compliment away. She sipped the icy cocktail, enjoying the faintly medicinal taste of the quinine in the tonic, its bitter bite balanced by the botanicals of the gin. When they were really good, like this one, cold drinks transported her back to before she left Tanzania to attend school in England. Cold drinks went hand in glove with waves of heat rippling from the ground of the wide-open vistas surrounding the preserve that had been her home. Cold drinks tasted so much better there, though this was pretty close.

Once they reached cruising altitude, the same flight attendant collected the cut crystal glass from her, his exasperation plain. Premium economy didn’t get such glassware. From the gleam in his eye, she had a feeling this flight attendant was going to watch her like a hawk.

She pressed the button in the armrest to recline the seat. It barely budged. If she called Thomas Blackwell’s bluff, she could uncoil like a cat and learn how committed he was to getting her phone number in one fell swoop. One day I’ll fly in a luxury capsule, but not until I can pay for it myself.

Araminta relaxed into the seat, weary to the marrow of her bones. The lack of sleep and stress of searching for the lost paper, the discombobulation of her hectic journey to Heathrow, and the steeplechase through the terminal to catch her plane, receded. She relaxed in the knowledge that she’d see Imogen tomorrow.

As the plane banked, the curtains separating premium economy from first class parted enough for Araminta to glimpse a flight attendant. The woman picked up the speaker system handset on the bulkhead wall behind Thomas Blackwell’s seat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if there are any medical professionals flying with us today, please press the call button to summon a flight attendant. Thank you very much for your assistance.”