Undead and Uneasy u-6 Page 5
“Where are you?” I hollered.
“—dusk—dark—come—”
“I'll come, I'll come! Where are you?”
''—see—stars—''
“Marc?”
“—worried—”
“Marc?!” I was yelling into a dead line.
That was it. That was it. I threw back the covers of my lonely bed, trying not to realize that things were getting mighty fucking weird (and failing), and got dressed with amazing speed.
I plucked a sleepy, wet, yawning Babyjon from his lib, changed him with vampiric speed (he seemed surprised, yet amused), grabbed the diaper bag and some formula, and headed for the bedroom door to beat feet for Minneapolis General, Oncology Ward. I was breaking rule number two, and I didn't give a tin fuck. Not for the rules of ordinary man was I, the dreaded vampire queen. No indeed! I was—
My computer beeped. Rather, Sinclair's computer beeped (what did I need a computer in the bedroom for? We only had, like, nine offices). The thing hadn't made a peep in days, so for a long moment, all I did was stare. It beeped again, and I lunged for it, ignoring Babyjon's squawk, and saw the you've got mail icon pop up.
I clicked on it (Sinclair had set the thing up so I could use it whenever I wanted), hoping. He knew it was in our bedroom, he knew I'd hear the chime wherever I was in the house, ergo it had to be from—
My sister, Laura.
Grumbling under my breath, I read the e-mail.
Betsy,
I'm dreadfully sorry I was unable to attend the funeral of your father and my mother. I was, as you know, occupied with the arrangements for the wake and the burial, as well as helping your mother with the baby, but deeply regret my unavoidable absence. I do hope we can get together soon. Please call me if you need anything, or if you run into trouble. God bless, Your loving sister, Laura
“And they that know thy name will put their trust in thee: for thou, Lord, hast not forsaken them that seek thee.” (Psalms 9:10)
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said aloud. “Verrrry helpful.” But I was all talk. At least someone hadn't forgotten me, left the country, or disappeared. Or gotten cancer.
Or if you run into trouble? What did that mean? It was almost like she knew things were getting weirder by the second. Which of course she couldn't. We hadn't even spoken until the day before the funeral, and that was all Ant stuff, not Jessica and Marc and Sinclair and Antonia and Garrett stuff.
I shoved the thought out of my head. Of all the people I had to worry about, Laura was so not one of them. Even if she was, according to the Book of the Dead, fated to take over the world. She was a good kid (when she wasn't killing vampires pretty much effortlessly) with a steady head and a kind heart (when she wasn't killing serial killers), and she was the definitive good girl (even if she was the devil's own). So there. Dammit.
I said it out loud, just to cement the idea into my lead. “So there. Dammit!”
“Blurrgghh,” Babyjon agreed, kicking his footie pajama feet into my hip bones. “Ready for a trip, baby brother?” “Yurrgghh!” “Right. Onward, and all of that.”
Chapter 12
I was so used to pouring out my troubles to Jessica—I'd been doing it since seventh grade—that I was actually shocked to find a bunch of doctors and nurses clustered around her bed. I couldn't even see her, much less talk to her. Not to mention, usually there was just one nurse, and that was only if it was time for a new bag of death.
Nick was standing off to one side, watching with his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles in his cheek jumping.
He saw me and said dully, “They're doing another round of chemo. She's something of a nine-day wonder. Everyone's been invited.”
“But—” Shocked, I shifted Babyjon to my other ¦ boulder, for once praying he wouldn't wake up. “But she just had a round of it!”
“It's a hard cancer to kill.”
“But—but—I have to tell her. . . um, stuff.” Careful, I said to myself. Nick's poor scrambled brains didn't need any more clues that things weren't normal at the House O' Vampires. “I mean, I came to talk to her.”
“Well, you can't.” Clearly distracted, he ran his hands through his thick blond hair. Even though his black suit was rumpled and he had a ketchup stain on his navy blue shirt, he looked like a million bucks: swimmer's build, long legs, sharp, Norwegian features—cheekbones you could shave with!—and ice blue eyes. Before I'd died, he'd been the closest thing to a boyfriend I'd had for years. And we hadn't been that close, frankly. Friendly, not friends.
See, the Fiends had attacked me outside of Kahn's Mongolian Barbeque (this was long before I knew what a Fiend was). And like a good citizen, I reported the assault to the police. Nick had helped me look through mug shots, and we'd shared a Milky Way. That was it. The big romance. It was only after I rose from the dead (after getting creamed by a Pontiac Aztec) that I put two and two together.
Not that Nick knew any of this, and not that I had any plans to enlighten the good detective.
“They're not letting anybody talk to her,” he was saying, bringing me back to the present with a yank. “But I want to talk to you.”
My heart instantly went out to him. Sure, I loved Jessica as much as I loved Sinclair and Manolo Blahniks. But she and Nick had gotten pretty tight over the last few months. This couldn't be easy for him, either.
“Sure, Nicky, honey.” I took his elbow and led him out into the hall. “What's on your mind?”
“In here,” he said, gesturing to another room. I stepped in after him and saw it was an empty patient's room. “Put the baby on the bed.”
Somewhat puzzled, I did so. Babyjon never twitched, bless him. Maybe Nick needed a hug? Maybe—oh God no—he was going to make a pass at me? Maybe he was only going out with Jessica because he couldn't have me! Oh my God! Like things couldn't get worse! Should I let him? Should I knock him out? Should I kill him and tell Jessica he got hit by a bus?
I turned to him and began, “Nick, listen, I don't think you're in your right—”
I stopped talking as I realized something cold and hard was pressed under my chin.
His nine millimeter Sig Sauer. (There were advantages to growing up with a mother who was an expert in small arms.)
“You're not going out with Jessica to get to me, are you?” I managed, so totally shocked that he had drawn his police-issued firearm and tucked it under my chin before I had time to realize that I couldn't move, much less slap the gun away. I was more shocked by the look in his eyes: flat rage.
“Betsy. I like you a lot. Even before you died, I liked you. But if you let Jessica die of this thing, I will shoot you in the face. I'll empty the whole clip between your pretty green eyes. I don't know much about vampires, but I bet it'll be tough for you to grow your brain back. Such as it is.”
My jaw sagged in shock; the gun never wavered. “You—you knew?” Once Jessica got over the new chemo round, I was going to kill her! "And what's that supposed to mean, 'such as it—
“Of course I knew,” he said impatiently. “I've known since that taxi driver gave his report—you remember. About a gorgeous blond woman who chased off a vampire and picked his car up with two fingers?”
“But—but—but—”
“Why didn't I say anything? Because you all took such great pains to keep it from me. If Jessica had wanted me to know, she would have told me. And I was content to wait. And then this—this thing happened to her. And that was the end of the waiting. So in case you missed it the first time: if you sit by and let this happen, I will make you regret the day you ever met me.”
“Already regretting,” I gurgled, since he was digging the barrel of his gun pretty tightly into my chin. “I already asked her if I could turn her.”
“Then what the fuck are you waiting for? For her to vomit until she dies like Karen Carpenter? For her to be more miserable? For her to rupture the lining of her throat? For the chemo to kill more healthy cells?”
“Owwwww!” I compl
ained, because boy, he was really grinding the Sig into my chin. “I'm not waiting for anything, Detective Demento. She said no. And that was that.”
“So? You're stronger, faster than us. You can make us believe something. . . or forget.” I should have I been super pissed, but instead I was embarrassed and my heart actually flipped over in my chest. Because he sounded bitter, so bitter.
He leaned forward until our eyes were about four niches apart. Mine were wide, I knew, with amazement. His were slits of blue fire. “I thought I was going crazy, you know? Kept dreaming about you for months. Dreaming about you biting me and me. . . liking. . . it. Needing it.”
“I didn't know,” I said faintly “I was newborn. Still am. I didn't know what I was doing to you. I'd have given anything to fix it, but I didn't know how. An older vampire fixed it.”
“I know who fixed it,” he informed me. “I dream about him, too. Dream about blowing his fucking mind-meddling head-peeping brains out. Dream about setting him on fire. Most nights I'm afraid to close my eyes.”
“Nick, I'm sorr—”
“Know who fixed that? Your best friend. The one currently engaged in the business of dying. Your hellhound bastard lover fixed me, honey, and you're gonna to fix her .”
I thought about taking the gun away. I could probably do it. Probably. Too bad I had the nasty feeling his finger was white on the trigger. I'd survived arrows to the chest, and a stake to the chest, and even a bullet to the chest. But a Sig Sauer clip to the brain? I had no idea. And I had no plans to find out. The week had been weird enough without getting shot, thanks very much.
And who would take care of Babyjon, if I were left with half a head? I need to write a will, I thought crazily Can I do that, now that I'm dead? Maybe Marjorie can help. But who do I trust to watch Babyjon—
“I'm waiting,” he whispered.
“Nick, you've gone seriously nuts, you know?”
“What can I say?” he replied, almost cheerfully. “I'm in love.”
“Uh-huh.” I thought about mojoing him, except I had my damned sunglasses on. I doubted he'd give me the second I needed to take them off. “Listen, Nick, I already told you twice, I can't—”
He cut me off, smiling. “Are we clear, Betsy? Honey? Deadly sweetheart with a killer figure and long legs and green eyes to get lost in? Are we clear?”
“I hear you, detective. But it's her choice. Not mine. And not yours. So get that peashooter off of me before I make you eat it.”
He grinned entirely without humor, but pulled the gun down and holstered it. His eyes were still flat. “Nice seeing you again, Betsy,” he said cheerfully, and actually held the door for me as I picked up Babyjon, and scuttled out. I didn't know which was scarier: the Bat rage or the fake (or was it fake?) recovery.
What was going on with everybody?
Chapter 13
All the way home, I was practically gasping for breath. Which, as I didn't need to breathe, made me dizzy. So I held my breath for five minutes, trying to calm down. It worked. A little.
Nick knew? A Minneapolis detective knew I was a vampire, that my runaway groom was a vampire? How many other cops knew? Even if he was the only one (and one was waaay too many), what if he found out about Antonia the werewolf, assuming the walkabout wench ever came back? And Garrett? And if Jessica got worse or—oh God please no—died, what was he going to do? What the fuck was I going to do?
Mojoing him was out. Sinclair's clearly hadn't taken. Or had taken for a while and then worn off.
II why? Sinclair was a pretty damned powerful vampire—old, and the king besides.
I took a yellow light way too fast, remembered Babyjon trapped—I mean strapped—in the car seat behind me, and slowed to a reasonable speed.
Why had Sinclair's “you are getting very sleepy” routine worn off? He could make people forget their own mothers. Was it because—it couldn't be. Naw. That was idiocy and worse, ego.
But. . . well, I couldn't shake the idea that because the long-prophesied queen of the vampires (moi) had gotten to Nick first, Sinclair never had a chance. That lie maybe fixed it for a while, but my power was too strong, and eventually Nick remembered.
Naw. That was too conceited, even for me.
Although it was pretty much the only thing that made sense, unless Nick had been lying about Jess not telling him. And I knew in my dead heart that Jessica would set herself on fire before telling my secrets.
Sure, the Book of the Dead prophesied that I would be the strongest, coolest, most badass vampire in a thousand years, but I still had trouble actually grasping it, you know? Shit, sixteen months ago I was a secretary dreading her thirtieth birthday. But the Book had been right about everything else. So why not this?
Which meant, maybe the way to fix this was to mojo Nick myself.
Except I wasn't sure I dared. For one thing, he would be ready for that—for me.
For another, I wasn't keen on mind-raping my best friend's boyfriend.
And for another, what right did I have to wipe anybody's brain, even if it was dangerous not to? I wasn't God. I was just me, Betsy, one-time secretary and part-time vampire and soon-to-be married woman.
I screeched into my driveway, decamped with Babyjon, hustled through the front door and up the stairs to his nursery. Changed him, fed him, burped him, all the while trying to figure out what to do about Nick. And Jessica. And Sinclair. And Antonia. And—
The door chimes rang, and I leapt out of the rocking chair, gaining another gasping burp from my brother. I plopped him into the crib (it was 6:30 p.m.—time for his mid-afternoon nap) and hustled down the stairs.
Yippee! Who would it be? Did Garrett eat his key again so they couldn't get to it? Had Sinclair sent flowers? Was Nick waiting on the porch with a twelve gauge shotgun? Was it my mom? (I would consider listening to an apology.) Had Marc escaped the clutches of whatever madman had snatched him from his shift at the ER? Had Tina's coffin been rolled in from the airport? And would I have to sign for it? Was Laura stopping by with her usual sweetness to offer condolences and offer to take Babyjon off my hands?
Who cared? It was somebody, by God. I wasn't going to be rattling around the house by myself a minute longer, and that was cause for a Hallelujah brother!
I yanked the door open, a cry of welcome (or “Holster that sidearm, Nick”) on my lips. I had just enough time to register the gleam of a wedding ring, as a fist the size of both of mine smashed into my face, knocking me back into the foyer.
Chapter 14
“Ouch, dammit!“ I yelped, skidding on my back like a bug and coming to a teeth-rattling stop against the parlor door. I was splayed in a most undignified way, luckily wearing walking shorts and not a miniskirt. And my jaw hurt like a bitch. So did my head, from where it had banged into the door. I responded to the indignity in the usual way. ”Ouch. Dammit!"
While I was swearing, several people had come in (uninvited!), and all of them were looking down at me.
Wedding Ring Asshole crouched, blinked big yellow owl eyes at me, and said, "So it's true. You're a vampire. No mortal would be breathing after that one.
“Who's breathing?” I bitched. I started to sit up, but Wedding Ring Asshole quickly stood, planted his foot in the middle of my chest, and kept me flat on my back. “Oh, now. That's just plain rude. I mean, ruder.” “You have much to answer for,” he informed me. He was a fabulous looking fellow, I'll give the asshat that much. Tall, really tall. Brown hair and gold eyes. Not light brown, not hazel. Gold, like old coins. Not like an owl, more like. . . a lynx? A lion? Whatever. He was as powerfully built as Sinclair, and easily as tall. And I hadn't been laid in—
Never mind. Focus, Betsy! “Get your foot off my tits right now.” Nobody puts his foot on my tits. It's a good rule to live by.
“After we talk.”
“Oh, dude. You are so picking the wrong week to fuck with me.”
“Produce my Pack member at once,” W.R.A. demanded.
I say momentarily because this did not make the other ones—four? five?—happy at all. I'm guessing this, because they all jumped on me at once. Unlike what happens in a karate movie, these guys didn't take turns. Nope, it was dog-pile time, with me on the bottom. (Did that make me the dog? Oh, never mind.)
I jerked my face to the side, just as a fist slammed through the floorboards where my head had been. “Wait. Wait!” I screamed.
Three fists (from two different people!) paused in midair, as I pulled my legs up, yanked off my saddle shoes (vintage, 1956, eBay, $296.26), and threw them into a corner.
“Okay,” I said. “Go.”
I blocked (barely) another fist, catching it on my crossed forearms a la Uma Thurman in Kill Bill (either one). I had zero martial arts training, but by God, I'd remember anything Uma did.
Fighting these guys was like dodging bullets: I could do it, but I sure as shit had to pay attention. They were fist. They were unbelievably fast. Old vampire fast. And their smell. Their iron-rich smell. It was tough Work, fighting them off and trying not to bite them at the same time.
I clawed my way back to the top of the pile through sheer force of will and, oh yeah, almost forgot, super human strength and reflexes. Not that these guys were too shabby in the area of paranormal abilities, either. Bums.
I managed to duck a few more punches and deal a few of my own, took a bite—a bite!—to the shoulder from one of them, and responded with a knee in the groin and a fist in the belly, so deep I thought I touched the guy's spine.
I took another punch to the nose (ow!) from a tank-top wearing brunette (the buzz cut was not for everyone, but it looked fabulous on her) and retaliated by stomping on the gal's ankle, smirking at the crunch, and the shriek.