Vampire Queen Betsy Taylor continues her rule in Hell in the scorchingly funny finale to the Undead series from New York Times bestselling author MaryJanice Davidson. It had been a well-kept secret for centuries, but now the existence of vampires is all over the news, thanks to Betsy Taylor’s half sister (and the frustrated former Antichrist), Laura. Life for the undead will never be the same, and it’s up to Betsy to do some damage control. But her interview on the local news doesn’t exactly put out the fire. It more or less pours kerosene on it.   With all the added attention on supernatural beings, the werewolves are more than a little agitated (never a good thing) and demand that Betsy gets her interview skills, and her family, in order. And while things go from bad to worse in the world, Hell continues to be hell—especially when Betsy’s new parole program becomes about as complicated as you’d expect.   With a PR team launching a vampire-friendly campaign, the devil at large and out to make trouble, and mermaids on hand to see who falls—and how hard—the end isn’t just near. It’s here. And if anyone knows how to go out with a bang, it’s the queen of Hell. Praise for the Undead series... “MaryJanice Davidson's Undead series is laugh-out-loud funny.”— Heroes and Heartbreakers “Be prepared to fall in love with the undead all over again!”— Romance Reviews Today “Delightful, wicked fun!”—Christine Feehan, #1 New York Times bestselling author  “Sexy, steamy, and laugh-out-loud funny.”— Booklist  “Charming and fun paranormal fantasy.”— Paranormal Haven MaryJanice Davidson is the bestselling author of several books, most recently Undead and Unforgiven , Undead and Unwary , Undead and Unsure , Undead and Unstable , Undead and Undermined , Undead and Unfinished , Undead and Unwelcome , Undead and Unworthy , and Dead Over Heels . With her husband, Anthony Alongi, she also writes a series featuring a teen weredragon named Jennifer Scales. MaryJanice lives in Minneapolis with her husband and two children and is currently working on her next book. 'NOTHER PROLOGUE (My Book, My Rules) You know the clichŽ about your life flashing before your eyes just before you die? It's true, and it's terrible. In those moments before death, you don't see loved ones or birthday parties or graduation or falling in love or your wedding day or your best vacation or anything, anything good. No, you see your mistakes. All of them. Every missed chance, every bungled opportunity, every wrong choice, every consequence, every error in judgment, every left when you should have taken a right. In an endless parade, right before your eyes, right at the end, and it should take years, but it doesn't; it takes only a few seconds. And it pretty much guarantees that when you die, you'll go out regretful and deeply depressed. That's what happened to me, anyway: my well-deserved, miserable death. CHAPTER ONE I hung up on the bitchy mermaid and waited for the gate to slide back. That was new. The reporters huddled on the sidewalk, though? They'd been there for three weeks. Long enough for me to remember their names, if I were the type to remember names. There was Needs Highlights, and Enough with the Aftershave, and This Isn't My Real Job, and It's Not Like I Stepped on You on Purpose, and Seriously with That Hair? Oh, and my personal favorite: Those Shoes Aren't Terrible. I referred to all the camera personnel by the same name: Get That Thing Out of My Face. I parked in the garage, which was also new. Before the deluge ("Onslaught," my assistant/friend/devoted vodka guzzler, Tina, corrected. "Deluge means flood." "Have you been out there? I'm sticking with deluge.") we'd had an outside, unconnected garage that was really long and weirdly deep (it used to be a stable that held the carriages and the horses). It was too vulnerable to Enough with the Aftershave and his ilk, though, so Tina had pulled a zillion strings and gotten a modern, safe, connected, impenetrable garage put up in less than a week. Luckily, the mansion sat on a corner lot and almost took up the block by itself; our yard was still big enough for Fur and Burr and smoothie picnics. Ah, the carefree days of smoothie picnics, before vampires went viral. I made my way into the mansion, waking up Fur and Burr when I passed through the mudroom. I had to amuse them for only a minute; given the yawns and round bellies and bad breath, they'd just eaten, and I'd interrupted nap time. (Fur and Burr were not reporters. They were black Lab puppies.) What was waiting for me inside the mansion was almost as scary as what was lurking on the sidewalk, though: a jittery zombie, a pissed-off Southern belle, the guy who saw dead guys (Bill? Sam? Something short, anyway), and a vampire king, all under siege. I'd gotten no farther than a single step into the kitchen when I was seized, backed into a wall, and kissed so hard my feet left the tile. I wiggled my toes so my