Grim Read online

  Grim

  (My Cursed Superhero Life, #1)

  Jessica Sorensen

  Contents

  A Little Bit About Me. You Know, So You Don’t Get All Startled When I Start Babbling About Drinking Souls.

  My Badass, Kickass Intro

  Nightmares Suck, But So Does Waking Up From Them and Having to Go to School.

  I Am Scary! I Swear I Am!

  I Think My Sidekick Might Despise Me

  Peanut Butter Might Just Be My Nemesis

  Undead Temper Tantrums

  A New Meal Possibility

  Thorn is Becoming a Thorn in My Side

  I May Have Messed Up and Accidentally Ate Something I Wasn’t Supposed to

  Coming Soon

  About the Author

  Also by Jessica Sorensen

  Grim

  Jessica Sorensen

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2018 by Jessica Sorensen

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or names featured are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms.

  * * *

  For information: jessicasorensen.com

  Cover design by Najla Qamber Designs

  Created with Vellum

  A Little Bit About Me. You Know, So You Don’t Get All Startled When I Start Babbling About Drinking Souls.

  When I look back at the faint memory of the day my human existence became no more, I sometimes cringe. I was so naïve, so delusional, but I guess it wasn’t totally my fault. I’d been raised to believe that darkness didn’t lurk in the shadows, that evil lurked in all kinds of places, even the most obvious. Maybe if I’d known, I never would’ve walked through the park that night. Or maybe I would’ve. It’s hard to say for sure what would’ve gone on in my mind, since I can barely recall how I used to think. Even when I try really hard, the person—human—I was before feels like a stranger. She looked too bright and shiny, acted too innocent. And, as I sit and replay the memory in my mind, I realize she sort of had a funny walk, like she half skipped but couldn’t quite get there.

  What a little weirdo. A naïve weirdo who was about to have their world and soul shattered.

  If I had the power, I’d go back in time and warn her. Or maybe I wouldn’t. Which, yeah, I know sounds harsh, but I’m not sure I want to be that girl again. Although, I’m not certain I like what I’ve become either. A creature of darkness, of death, an undead monstrosity who feeds off souls. I really am quite repulsive. and I should care, but … it’s kind of hard to care about stuff after the grim reaper stole your soul.

  Not that the bastard was the one who actually hurt me. No, he was more than likely just coming to clean up the mess of the asshats who had attacked me. Not that I can recall who they were.

  No, fear can be a funny little bitch in the sense that I can still feel the fear of that night, so much so that I can’t see past it, can’t see past the terror and figure out who hurt me and made me bleed.

  One day, though …

  One day, I’ll get my revenge.

  For now, I rise from my bed and stare out my window where night has awoken.

  For now, it’s time to feed.

  My Badass, Kickass Intro

  I can feel the darkness swimming in my veins already, a silent hunger that’s desperate to be fed. And I’m about to feed it, let that hunger devour me and take over, consume my body and veins until I’m so spun with desire that I lift up toward the night-kissed sky …

  Okay, screw this poetic crap. The truth? Poetry has never been my thing. Even before I was dead, I was never one for penning or reading verses or whatever it is you poets do. I’m not judging or anything. In fact, I think it’s pretty damn awesome how poets can make words pour out of them so beautifully.

  Me? My poetic beauty lies in my hands and lips. Hands that have the ability to squeeze the life out of someone. And afterward, when they’re all good and nice and lifeless, I put my beautiful lips to theirs and devour their souls.

  Mmm … souls … Now that’s poetic beauty right there. I’m nearly drooling just thinking about it.

  Wiping a bit of drool from my lips. I wiggle around a bit, trying to get comfortable. Then I set my phone down on the beam beside me. While I may be good and undead and basically indestructible, I get some surprisingly wickedly painful muscle cramps. In my defense, I’ve been sitting up here for over an hour, bored out of my mind, hence my attempt at making my inner monologue sound poetic.

  For reals, though, if these assholes I’ve been stalking don’t show up soon, I might sneak back to my neighborhood, slip into my neighbor’s house, and feed on his soul instead.

  Now, don’t go all judge-y on me just yet. The guy’s a straight-up asshole, and I’m fairly certain he’s stalking the woman who lives in the house on the other side of mine. He may even be planning her murder. Not that I have any proof, which is why I haven’t devoured his soul yet.

  It’s my number one rule in this new, undead life of mine: never kill or feed on anyone’s soul unless I can prove they have, or they’re about to, commit a terrible crime. And I’m not talking about shoplifting or petty crimes. I’m after the murderers, rapists, or people like I’m currently hunting right now—human traffickers.

  Human traffickers are the worst, straight-up heartless pieces of garbage … Although, their souls are pretty tasty …

  Anyway …

  Shaking my head, I wipe more drool from my chin and switch sitting positions so I have a better view of the main door. Then I check the time. It’s after midnight. They should have been here by now. At least, according to the data I collected after tailing these guys for the last week. I did it not only to make sure they meet my qualification for my number one rule but so I can get a feel of their routine. Plus, I’m pretty sure they’re connected to a much larger human trafficking ring plaguing the city. I’d like to find out who the head honcho is so I can take the asshole down—drinking his soul is an added bonus—but so far, none of the lackeys who work in these types of warehouses have given out his name, no matter how much torture I inflict.

  I have high hope for this warehouse bust, since the lackeys who work here aren’t as careful as the others I’ve crossed paths with. In fact, during the time I spent following them, I watched them make countless mistakes, so many that I’m surprised they haven’t been busted by the police yet. Then again, I have a theory that some of the police might be a part of the ring. If that theory is correct, it’s going to complicate my mission of taking these guys down. For now, I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing—taking these guys down one soul at a time.

  I just wish they’d show the hell up, because I’m getting tired of waiting for their asses.

  “Come on; where the hell are you?” I mutter, thrumming my fingers against the side of the beam I’m sitting on. I check the time again then frown. “Only thirty seconds have gone by? What the hell?” I let my head bob back. “This is getting so boring.”

  Plus, this warehouse smells like old cheese and dirty socks. The stench is probably coming from the rooms where the girls are kept, though they’re not in them right now. They’re out on jobs. Jobs they’re forced to work.

  As I learned from watching their capturers’ routines, the girls will a
rrive in a van tonight, tied up, worn down, and broken. Once I free them, I’ll have to call a cab since the warehouse is out in the middle of nowhere, miles away from the small city of Stars Grove, the one and only place I’ve ever called home. And, as for just calling the police, it’s too risky. I mean, I can’t just cross my fingers and hope the good cops show up.

  The other alternative would be to just drive the girls back to the city myself, except 1). that’d be a risk of people finding out about me, and 2). I kind of failed my driver’s test. Three times actually. After the third time, my mom banned me from taking the test again until I turned eighteen, which is in a few months. I’m really looking forward to it, because taking a bus or a cab to my vigilante jobs is a pain in the ass. I just hope I can pass the test the next time around.

  “I totally can,” I try to convince myself. I just need to relax while I’m taking it and, considering I’m dead now and don’t have a pulse, getting nervous shouldn’t be a problem.

  Although, I do have issues with parallel parking. And by issues, I mean I can’t do it at all. I have no idea what makes simply backing a car into a space beside a curb is so complicated, unless the curb is magically moving around somehow when I’m not looking.

  Yeah, maybe that’s it—

  Creak.

  The door to the warehouse starts to open, jerking me from my thoughts of parallel parking. Only three things fill my mind now. 1). Taking these guys down and freeing the girls. 2). Feeding off the bad guys’ souls. And 3). Getting home before two o’clock because I have school tomorrow and I’d really like to get at least five hours of sleep, preferably six since I have an English test and want to make sure I’m not feeling like a zombie during it. I already have enough issues being undead. Not that I believe that’s what I am, but so far, I haven’t been able to pinpoint exactly what sort of creature I am, so I just refer to myself as the undead.

  If I could fully remember what happened the night I changed into whatever the hell I am now, that awful night a year ago, maybe I could solve the mystery of why I now crave souls, have enhanced strength and superspeed, and rapid healing abilities. Unfortunately, I can only recall bits and pieces of that night, and everything is blurry and distorted, nothing fitting together, just like me in this human world. One day, I’ll remember everything—I know I will—and then I’m going to track down the bastards who did this to me and destroy them, one by one, slowly and painfully. Then their souls are going to make a tasty feast.

  For now, I’ll center my rage on these dumbasses down below me.

  I rise to my feet, lurking in the shadows, as a van pulls into the warehouse and parks in the center beside the door that leads to the hallway where the girls’ rooms are located. Just inside the door are a couple of guards who I’ve already taken care of. But two souls didn’t do much for my appetite. Maybe they would’ve if I didn’t have to wait so long between feedings, but finding qualifying candidates that meet my number one rule takes time.

  Once the van’s engine is silenced, the door begins to lower again, sealing the guys inside—sealing them unknowingly into their everlasting tomb.

  Hey, maybe I am getting the hang of this poetry thing.

  “Hold off on opening the side door for a minute,” a guy calls out as he hops out of the passenger side. “I need to make sure the back door is locked in case Tina tries to make a run for it again.”

  “If you tied her up better, she wouldn’t have been able to run last time,” the driver grumbles as he climbs out.

  These two are the main guys who work here, but there’re a couple more who are usually in the back of the van with the girls. And of course there’s the head honcho, who everyone always refers to as Boss. He’s never around in any of these warehouses, though.

  Crouching down, I draw my hood over my head and put my masquerade mask on over my eyes. It’s really pretty, pink and glittery, and makes my eyes pop …

  Yeah, okay, I couldn’t get through that with a straight face.

  The truth is the mask is butt-ass ugly. I mean, it’s pink for hell’s sake and has glitter on it. What the designers were thinking when they designed it is beyond me, other than maybe they wanted to create something that looked like it came out of a unicorn’s ass. But I need a mask, and this one was lying around my bedroom, an item left over from my previous life. I’ve been meaning to go to the store to find a more appropriate one, like one with skulls on it or souls, but between this whole vigilante, feeding-my-hunger thing, going to school, practicing driving, and the couple of hours a day I spend wallowing in my self-pity over my new life and crying over a tub of ice cream I can’t really eat, I haven’t had time to go shopping. At this point, I’ll probably just have to order something online and hope it looks like the photo when it arrives.

  “You’re the one who’s supposed to tie them up, not me,” the guy who got out of the passenger side says as he strides toward the garage door.

  I secure the mask to my eyes while assessing them and debating the best way to go about this—how to take them out without risking one of them getting away, which I’m betting one of them will do.

  The driver, who I refer to as Zitty Zane—although his real name is Bruce, Zitty Bruce doesn’t have as nice of a ring to it—is the tougher of the two, but that doesn’t say much since they’re both pretty whiney. He’s also a bit on the taller and muscular side with blond hair, wide set eyes, and piss-yellow teeth. From what I’ve gathered, he uses the girls for his own personal pleasure.

  The other guy I like to call Chubby Bubby, though his real name is Joe. He’s on the stocky side and wears more gel in his hair than I do black lipstick. He likes to obey the rules more, but only because he’s planning to overthrow his boss, which he’ll never do. He’s way too stupid to pull it off. Seriously, the other day, I watched him struggle to get a door to open for over a minute before he finally realized he was supposed to pull instead of push. And yet, even after realizing this, he pulled the door straight into his face.

  Le sigh. Now that I think about it, I have a feeling these guys are going to be boring to eliminate. But at least the girls will be free, which is really why I do this. Well, that and I need to feed off a soul every couple of weeks or I’ll die.

  I’m not certain what drew me to this particular criminal activity, other than I saw something about human trafficking being a problem in our city the same day I realized I needed to drink souls to survive. While I may be undead and do some messed-up shit, I couldn’t bring myself to drink an innocent soul. Therefore, when I saw the clip on the news about the human trafficking problem, I decided to see if I could track some of the people linked to it. Turns out I’m a pretty good tracker, and a few days later, I feasted off three evil souls and freed a warehouse full of people who’d been captured. After that, I made it my mission to take the entire ring down, something I’ve been slowly working on.

  Still, I sometimes get the feeling that my mission has a deeper meaning, but I can’t quite place why—

  “No, Boss said you’re supposed to do the tying and I’m supposed to make sure all the doors are locked,” Chubby Bubby interrupts my thoughts as he rolls the van door open.

  Focus, Remi, focus.

  “No, you’re wrong,” Zitty Zane protests as he shoves up the sleeves of his shirt. “It’s the other way around.”

  “No, you are.” Chubby Bubby reaches inside the van and grabs one of the girls by the hair. She whimpers, tears streaming down her face as he drags her out.

  I get a good view of inside the van and realize the other guys aren’t in there.

  Crap. Where the hell are they?

  “No,” Zitty Zane continues to argue

  I can’t take this anymore. Their bitching is giving me a headache. I’ll just get rid of them then wait for the others to arrive. Pretty simple, right? And if not, more fun for me. I hate simple.

  “Actually,” I call out, pointing at Zitty Zane as both the guys blink up at me. “Zit face is right.” I look at Chubby Bubby.
“You’re supposed to make sure everyone is tied up properly.” When he gapes at me, I put my hands on my hips. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Your boss reminded you of this the other night over the phone, and you complained about it for over an hour.” When they continue to stare at me stupidly, I sigh. “Can’t you at least try to run or something? If I just jump down there and take you out, it’s not going to be very fun for me. And I have tests tomorrow, so I need a bit of fun tonight.”

  Chubby Bubby shoves the girl back into the van, slams the door shut, and then reels back toward me, drawing a knife from an ankle holster while Zitty Zane pulls out a gun.

  “Okay, I so did not see that one coming.” I tilt my head to the side as I stare at Zitty Zane. “But, in my defense, I’m pretty sure your boss banned you from carrying one after you accidentally shot one of the other lackeys in the foot. Or did I overhear the conversation incorrectly?”

  He raises his gun at me. “I make my own rules. I don’t have to listen to nobody.”

  “Actually, I think the word anyone would be more grammatically correct in that sentence,” I say then grin. “Hey, I think I just might ace my English exam tomorrow.”

  “No, you won’t. Because you’re not walking out of here, sweetheart,” Zitty Zane says with a shit-eating grin on his face.

  “Finally, a little bit of drama.” I smile in glee. “Thank God. I was getting so bored with this.”

  “You have three seconds to get down from those beams,” he warns. “And then I’m coming up after you. And trust me; if I have to go up there, I’m going to punish you twice as bad.”

  “Well, when you put it that way.” I push play on my phone, turning on the song I selected for tonight’s fight from my Badass Fighting Playlist, then stuff my phone into my pocket.