Walking Shadows. Narrelle M Harris

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      WALKING SHADOWS

      by

      Narrelle M Harris

      BLURB

      Lissa Wilson's life hasn't been quite the same since people she cared about started getting themselves killed.

      By vampires.

      And Lissa learnt that the opposite of life is not always death. On the plus side, she made a new friend.

      Gary Hooper may be the worst best-friend a librarian could have - and easily the worst vampire ever - but he has taught Lissa the real meaning of life.

      Gary's worldview has also improved remarkably since meeting Lissa, but all that could be lost if she discovers what services he provides Melbourne's undead community.

      Meanwhile, as their friendship brings him closer to the humanity he lost, it also puts them both in grave danger.

      And there's a big chance that the evil stalking them could them both killed - in his case, for good this time.

      For Nanna and Poppa Harris

       I still miss you.

      Praise for The Opposite of Life

      Book 1 in the GeekVamp series:

      "It's certainly a most unusual vampire novel. Lissa Wilson, librarian, geek, and young woman about town… seems to be the magnet for trouble...She's a wonderful character; not because she's an heroic supergirl, but because she rings true. If you can get this book, do. It's really a refreshing take on a common theme."

      Charlaine Harris, author of the Sookie Stackhouse books, adapted for TV as: True Blood

      "A well-made plot with a killer (literally) ending."

      Kerry Greenwood, author of the Phryne Fisher mysteries (now an ABC TV series); and The Delphic Women trilogy: Medea, Cassandra & Electra

      If you're a sucker for a good vamp story, The Opposite of Life is about life and death, and love and revenge, and loss and grief, and solving brutal murders. Oh, and dating."

      Stiletto - the Sisters in Crime Australia magazine

      CHAPTER 1

      "It's a severed hand."

      A blunt observation, but certainly the most pertinent one.

      "You've brought me a severed hand. In a bag." I thought it bore repeating, given Gary's lack of response.

      "Yeah. Sorry, Lissa" said my undead friend. "I meant to tell you before you opened it, but you were a bit quick off the mark."

      "You've brought me a hand in a bag." I jabbed my finger in a tiny, tense gesture at the bright yellow plastic bag on the counter, hoping none of my colleagues would notice.

      "I didn't have anywhere else to keep it."

      "So you brought it to my library?"

      "Um…"

      "There might be a time and a place for severed human hands in plastic bags, Gary, but that is never, ever, ever in my library."

      "There's a DVD in there as well," Gary pointed out.

      "Yes. Yes, I saw that." I kept my voice calm. When he'd placed the bag with its distinctive logo on the counter, I pounced, assuming he was showing off the latest addition to his film collection of trashy vampire flicks. And that's a zero score for Lissa Wilson.

      "I had the DVD first," he continued, "I mean, I didn't go shopping after I found it."

      Because that would, you know, be crazy. Unlike bringing the thing to me at work.

      "It wouldn't fit in my pocket," Gary continued, as though he'd actually tried to. He can't help it, I suppose, being equal parts socially-awkward nerd and socially-awkward vampire. I'm mainly socially-awkward librarian, which is one reason why we get along. When he's not bringing me hideous and inappropriate gifts. Like a severed hand.

      I was clearly having a lot of trouble letting that go.

      "Lissa, I need to talk to you," said Gary.

      "I can't talk now," I said tightly. Not while a severed hand in a shopping bag is sitting on my library counter.

      My boss Beatrice noticed us at last. Gary was dressed as usual in an eye-wateringly colourful shirt, so it was inevitable. She eyed us with concern. I was probably almost as pale as Gary. "You okay?" she called out from her end of the counter.

      "I'm fine," I called back. "My friend is playing a practical joke."

      "It's not a giant rubber spider in there, is it?"

      "Yes," I said, voice strangled.

      "You shouldn't do that to arachnophobes," Beatrice said to Gary in a tone that suggested she thought it was a good gag. He nodded solemnly.

      "Sorry, Lissa" he said earnestly, "I didn't mean to shock you like that."

      "How did you think I'd react? No, wait," I took a deep breath. "Can you give me five minutes? I need to finish up." And rediscover my equilibrium.

      "I guess. It's not going anywhere," Gary said with a grimace.

      "I won't be long."

      He stood aside to let me cater to the library patrons who were queued up behind him. I tried to quell my shaking hands so I could scan books, and kept dropping either the books or the scanner instead. Gary loitered by the desk, edgy and impatient. Beatrice gave me a questioning look and I tried - in vain - to look unconcerned.

      The minute we were done I grabbed my satchel from the staff room, collected Gary by the elbow and drew him outside, leaving the boss to lock up.

      Out in the warm evening air, I took several more calming breaths. And then, because I couldn't believe what I'd seen, and I am a glutton for stupid, I tapped Gary's knuckles for him to open the bag again. He obliged.

      A bloodless hand lay in the bottom of the yellow bag, next to the shrink-wrapped DVD. The bright summer sunlight filtering through the plastic made the hand look even sicklier than I remembered.

      There was no mistaking it for a rubber prop. The hand's reality was in the texture of the pale skin; the detailed criss-crossed lines of the palm; the gentle curl of the elegant fingers; the fine hairs along the back of the hand; faintly dirty fingernails, as though the grime was old and permanent; the dried-raw-meat texture of the stump; and the ivory of the bones protruding from the truncated wrist, angled as though the hand had been not cut but twisted off.

      Another factor in the not-a-fake analysis was Gary. His sense of humour doesn't run to macabre practical jokes. That's the forte of the rest of Melbourne's ghastly undead community. Mercifully, at this point, he closed the bag. What a pity the image was now burned into my brain.

      I struggled for something useful to say. "Whose is it?" I managed at last.

      "I think it's Mundy's," said Gary, "It smells like his."

      That was repulsively more information than I required. Mundy was Melbourne's oldest vampire, a vicious bastard with the musty air of the 17^th century still clinging to his speech patterns.

      I sought more mundane details, if that's what they could be called. "How did you end up with it?"

      "Mundy wrote and asked me to visit him."

      I noted the 'wrote' - neither Gary nor Mundy had a phone.

      "So I..." Gary continued.

      "Hold on."

      Beatrice