By: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

To my agent Michele Rubin and editor Latoya Smith. I am not sure where this next exciting leg of the journey will lead, but I am honored to be taking it with you two spunky, wonderful ladies! (Insert visual of Mimi disco dancing here.)


A VERY Special Thank You To:

To my gods of supreme maleness for finally putting down the toilet seat and only breaking $100 dollars’ worth of things this month. (I really didn’t like that chandelier, anyway.)

My evil guinea pigs! Vicki Randall, Ashlee Randall, Kim McNicholl, Ute Carlin, and Karen Swartz. Thank you for putting on your evil hats and giving evil feedback!

To my ooooh-so-fun friends on Facebook and Twitter. I cannot tell you how much I look forward to your snarkiness and inappropriate ideas for Cimil t-shirts! (LOL. C*!&p is my middle name. Except on Wednesdays, then it’s… Biaaaanca!)

NOTE FROM CIMIL, Ex-goddess of the Underworld

Hellooo there, my little people pets! I bet right now you’re thinking, what the heckity-heck is this novella nonsense? I bet you want to know what happens next to our hunky ex-god Kinich. I bet you think I should be spanked for allowing Mimi to make you wait.

All right. Yes! That last one is all me.

As for the novella (aka narrative, short story, potboiler, yarn) there is something you don’t know. Something important. Something dark. And our little Accidentally Yours, apocalyptic love-safari, including mine, cannot continue until you’ve heard the story of my brother Chaam, God of Male Virility. Because without a little bitterness, there can be no sweet. Without yin, no yang. Without flabby thighs, no disco Zumba. And then where, where! would you be, pray tell?

But I warn you, this sad sniffler of a tale is one of tragedy and sacrifice without an ending. (Yet.)

“What?” you say. “Another cliffhanger?”

Why, of course it is! Not even I, the great Ex-goddess of the Underworld, now domestic love slave to Roberto (aka Narmer, Bob the Ancient One, Crusty Old Pharaoh), know exactly how this series will end. (Possibly.) I mean, it’s impossible (not really) to believe that such a tangled mess will just simply work itself out in the end. Isn’t it?

But what do I know? (Everything.) I’m useless without my dead to tell me the future…



Lowly Scrubber of Immortal Tighty Whities

and Other Assorted Vampire Garments

There has to be evil so that good can prove its purity above it.


Chapter 1

Bacalar, Mexico. November 1, 1934

Why is that man… naked?

Dazed and flat on her back, twenty-one year old Margaret O’Hare observed the man’s bare backside as he stood on a nearby weather-beaten dock, toweling off. Her vision, at first a groggy mess, focused to a machete-sharp point, the pain in her forehead equally knifelike.

Yes. Naked. Really. Really. Naked. She’d never seen such a large, well-built man or such a perfect backside—hard, deeply tanned, and worthy of a marble sculpture. Maybe two. Or five. Too bad she was a painter.

Hold on. Where the ham sandwich am I? Margaret’s eyes, the only body part she could move without experiencing pain, whipsawed from side to side. Jungle. Dirt. Lake. Okay. I’m lying near the lake. Yes, this was good. She recognized the place. Sort of.

Am I near the village dock?

Her peripheral vision said no; this dock had a tiny palapa for shade at the very end.

Then where?

She made a feeble attempt to lift her throbbing head, but her body rewarded her with a spear to the temple.

Ow. Ow. Ow. She took a slow breath to allow the skull-shattering jab to dissipate. All right. Relax and think. What happened? What happened? What happened? And who is Mr. Perfectbottom over there?

A sticky blanket of gray coated her thoughts, but she did recall swimming that morning. Maybe she’d slipped on the village dock and fell into the lake. Maybe Mr. Perfectbottom had been bathing down at the shore and rescued her.

Or not.

Her clothes were bone-dry except for the sweaty parts. Come to think of it, she felt like a mud pie, soggy underneath and dry on top, baking in the sun. It didn’t help that someone—maybe the man?—had placed a warm fur under her head and neck. God, it was itchy.

She willed her hand to make the painful journey behind her ear to give it a good scratch. Her fingers brushed the soft, silky hairs of the makeshift pillow.

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