Read Undead and Undermined Online
Authors: MaryJanice Davidson
Tags: #Romance, #Fiction, #Religious, #Paranormal, #Vampires, #Taylor; Betsy (Fictitious Character), #Sinclair; Eric (Fictitious Character)
Undead and Undermined (5 page)
Not that that would stop me! But I sort of had my hands full, what with an eternal nuclear winter-thing coming, my Ancient Evil Self, Jessica gestating The Thing That Made Her Eat Strawberry-banana Smoothies (she hated bananas), the Book of the Dead, and Satan doing her I’m-hot-and-plotting thing. But giving Marc unasked-for advice was on my to-do list, you bet. I was lulling him into a false sense of thinking he’d dodged nagging.
Yeah, I know. Even as I was telling myself this shit, I wasn’t believing a word. Tell you what: if you can’t fool yourself, you can’t fool anybody.
I should cross-stitch that on a sampler.
“Did so,” Nick replied. “Lost a bet.”
“Huh? Oh, reading
Gone With the Wind.
And again, I say ha. Listen, Nick, if you’d even give the book a—”
Gone With the Wind.
And again, I say ha. Listen, Nick, if you’d even give the book a—”
“Stop that,” he said with a shudder. “You know I hate that.”
“Hate what?” The list was so long. Vampires . . . except apparently not anymore. Bananas . . . one of the few things he and Jess had in common. Bad guys . . . assuming he was still a cop. Tough to tell, because in the un-screwed timeline he’d been a plainclothes detective, so there was no uniform to give him away. But since he hung around cops and crime scenes and shooting ranges all day, he always smelled like gun powder; it was not an indicator of what his job was. In the altered timeline he could be in charge of sweeping up the men’s room at the Cop Shop, or a gunsmith, for all I knew.
Luckily, he was still talking, because I badly needed enlightening. “Stop calling me Nick. You know I can’t stand it.”
I stared at him. For the second time in three minutes, I had no idea what to say. “What am I supposed to call you?”
“Maybe by his name?” Marc asked, pouring himself smoothie number three. Which was terrifying; I hadn’t seen number two go down his gullet. I was starting to suspect sleeping with pretty boys and wolfing smoothies were his superpowers. “Just for funsies.”
“Your name. Right. Right! Which is . . . ?” I prompted. “Sounds like . . . ?”
“Sounds like Dick.”
“Hee, hee!”
“Grow up,” Jessica and Nick (?) said in unison. Nick (?) added, “Come on, you
know
that. Or at least you knew it yesterday. Jeez, for the first year Jessica and I went out, you kept calling me by the wrong name.”
know
that. Or at least you knew it yesterday. Jeez, for the first year Jessica and I went out, you kept calling me by the wrong name.”
“I do that to everyone. So your name is now Dick.”
“It’s always been Dick.”
“But your name isn’t Richard or Dick or anything like that. If you’re a Nicholas, why would your nickname be Dick?”
“Because there are a lot of Nicks in my family, so they called me Dick to distinguish.”
“Not Nick, yup, got it.”
He sighed and looked put-upon, then smiled at me. “If only I could believe that, roomie.”
Roomie! I sooo did not authorize this; it was annoying enough sharing hot water and fridge space with . . . uh . . . lemmee see, how many people were living here before . . . “Are you still a cop?”
“No, now I sell Mary Kay.” Seeing my eyes narrow into the cold pitiless gaze of a killer (or someone getting ripped at a sample sale), he elaborated: “Yes, I’m a cop. Currently Detective First Grade.”
“And you . . . uh . . . you and Jessica . . .” I pointed vaguely at her big belly.
“Stop staring,” she told me. “And yes. And stop that.”
“I’m not staring.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I—oh, cripes, what was that?” I was on my feet before my brain knew I’d been trying to get away. “It moved!”
“Kicked,” Jessica corrected, patting her belly and pushing the teeny foot or skull or tentacle out of the way. “But don’t worry, honey. Someday you’ll have hair on your special places and will start thinking about boys and wanting to have a baby.”
“Fat fucking chance. No offense.”
“Whoa, wait.” Jessica’s big brown eyes went squinty, which wasn’t easy since she was wearing her hair skinned back in her usual eye-watering ponytail. She was sort of stuck in a high school hairdo, but it was understandable . . . pulling her hair back emphasized her cheekbones. You could practically cut yourself on them. She looked like a big round Nefertiti. “Did you just get back from hell and call me fat?”
“Not on purpose. Either of them.”
“You’re glowing, Jess, you’re gorgeous,” Nick soothed. “Betsy’s just . . . you know. Being Betsy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Artist Formally Known as Nick?”
“What do you think it means, Vampire Queen Lamely Known as Betsy?” He sounded pissed, but then laughed. “Jesus! You take one trip to hell and then have to be reminded of the basics.”
“Why are you laughing? You
hate
me!”
hate
me!”
Nick frowned. “Since when?”
CHAPTER THREE
Well. Since I fed on him the night I came back from the dead,
and my husband mind-raped him. Oh, and since he forced Jessica to choose between him and me. If we’re, you know, going to get down to specifics.
and my husband mind-raped him. Oh, and since he forced Jessica to choose between him and me. If we’re, you know, going to get down to specifics.
“Nicholas J. Berry!” Jessica gasped. “What is the matter with you?”
“With me? You should have seen this psycho bitch in action.”
“That is enough,” she snarled, hands on scrawny hips. “When are you going to get it through your head that Betsy isn’t the cause of all your problems?”
I was frantically trying to signal to Jessica, making a slashing motion across my throat, the universal gesture for
shush
! Although it made me sad, I felt Nick’s rage was a perfectly appropriate reaction to the evening’s festivities. I appreciated Jessica sticking up for me—she always stuck up for me—but she didn’t have all the facts.
shush
! Although it made me sad, I felt Nick’s rage was a perfectly appropriate reaction to the evening’s festivities. I appreciated Jessica sticking up for me—she always stuck up for me—but she didn’t have all the facts.
He had been attacked. Again. Violated by vampires . . . again. I was amazed he hadn’t gone fetal in the hedges.
“How many times do I have to say it,” Jessica was saying. “How many times do you have to see it? She’s a good guy!”
“No, Jess, it’s okay, he—”
“She drinks blood, because she’s dead,” he said, spitting on the floor—spitting blood, I might add, and I was ashamed, because my fangs were out again. I didn’t dare speak anymore; I didn’t want him to know I wanted to drink and drink and drink. “She’s a killer, and you know it.”
“I love her, she’s the sister I never got, and you know that.”
“Ah, perhaps we could, ah, step into another room and discuss, ah, the new terms for surrender,” Tina said, because even the Fiends looked uncomfortable to be witnessing the lovers’ quarrel.
“Or maybe you could talk about this later, when everybody’s calmed down,” I tried.
“Don’t make me choose,” Jessica warned, ignoring us. For her, the only person in the room was Nick.
“I’m not making you choose. I’m choosing. We’re done.” He wiped his face again, and we all pretended not to notice how his hand shook and how he couldn’t look at her.
“That’s right,” Jessica replied coolly. “We are.”
And just like that—it was over. They were over. We could all practically hear the snap.
CHAPTER FOUR
Except it wasn’t. Because I’d never fed on Nick/Dick in this
new reality. And for the first time, instead of being weirded out or scared by an out-of-the-blue change, I thought maybe that was a really good thing. How often in life do we get a do-over?
new reality. And for the first time, instead of being weirded out or scared by an out-of-the-blue change, I thought maybe that was a really good thing. How often in life do we get a do-over?
“Are you married? Was I there? What did I wear? Tell me you got married in the spring. Tell me I got to break out the Christian Louboutin Dahlia pointy toe ankle boots. It’s almost too much to hope for!”
“It’s awful that you’re talking about the shoes, and everybody at this table knows you’re talking about the shoes.”
“It’s not such a high heel, is the thing. I could have walked around in them no matter how long the ceremony was, without ever praying for anesthetic.” I turned to Sinclair. “I can recover from bullet wounds but my feet still hurt after a couple of hours in pumps? The hell!”
Jessica frowned. “Wait. Who—?”
“We aren’t married.” Dick-Nick said. “Yet. But nice work making our non-marriage all about you, Bets.”
Well, it is.
I decided not to explain that out loud.
It really is! A little, anyway
. My Christian Louboutin ankle boots were the real victim here.
I decided not to explain that out loud.
It really is! A little, anyway
. My Christian Louboutin ankle boots were the real victim here.
Jessica tried, and failed, to fold her arms over her titanic gut. “Don’t even start with that ‘not yet’ crap.”
“Yes,” Sinclair hastily put in. “Don’t.”
“Oh, come on.” Marc grinned. “Don’t deprive me of drama. I need it! Like Jenna says, drama is my Gatorade; it replenishes my electrolytes.”
Ah! Something else consistent in this universe: Marc was as devoted to Jenna Maroney’s character from
30 Rock
as he was when I left. Weird, the things that made me feel better.
30 Rock
as he was when I left. Weird, the things that made me feel better.
“And the reason the answer is ‘not yet’ instead of ‘six months and going strong’ is because your best friend,” D-Nick was telling me, “has it in her head that because her mom and dad’s marriage was a disaster, she, too, would be bad at it.”
I could feel my eyes widen but didn’t say anything. I thought Jess would make N/Dick a great wife. Hmm, gorgeous and smart and open-minded and cool and rich? Jessica should sink her claws into his hide and grip like an IRS agent looking for a promotion.
But her concerns were real. And I didn’t think they should be brushed aside.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” Marc coaxed in an encouraging tone. “Look at the facts. If Betsy can be good at marriage, anyone can.”
“Die screaming,” I told him. Then snapped my jaw shut so quickly I almost bit off my tongue. I had the awful feeling that he did just that. Or would someday do just that. Goddamned time travel.
“I’m not having this discussion during smoothie time,” Jessica told N/Dick.
“Indeed,” Sinclair tried again, “there are other things we should—”
“That’s it.” D/Nick threw his arms in the air like a football referee (“And . . . it’s gooooood!”). “I’m going to get Marc to dose you with tranqs, then haul you in front of a judge. By the time you—”
“Remember you’ve never been a fan of felony kidnapping or drug abuse,” Marc prompted.
“—realize what’s happened, it’ll be too late. You’ll be Mrs. Detective Nicholas J. Berry.” He’d said all that with a scowl, but it couldn’t hold up to Jessica’s amused exasperation, and when he grinned back, I was again reminded how greatlooking he was.
I had always liked that Nickie/Dickie looked like what he was: a clean-cut, corn-fed midwestern boy. A smokin’ hot midwestern boy, if I may be so uncouth.
Once upon a time his name was Nick, and I’d hoped we’d get naked and make careless reproductive choices together. But when we first met, he saw me as a victim of the crime he hoped to solve (it was a long story involving feral vampires, Kahn’s Mongolian BBQ, and my love of garlic). And after he met Jessica, he’d never thought of me at all.
Hmmm. I wasn’t sure I liked the way my memories bent.
Memo to me: you have everything. And you’re still irked that Nick-Dick never ever saw you in the way you were accustomed. Get over it, you greedy cow.
Memo to me: you have everything. And you’re still irked that Nick-Dick never ever saw you in the way you were accustomed. Get over it, you greedy cow.
Speaking of greedy, was he super-rich in this timeline or struggling on a cop’s salary? Which was just pitiful, by the way . . . A good executive assistant made more than the average homicide detective, and admin staff were rarely shot at.
I had it in my head that N-Dick was the heir to the John Deere tractor fortune, but he didn’t talk about it much in my old timeline, and frankly, what with my husband being rich and my best friend being rich, I wasn’t all that curious about other people’s money. In any timeline.
I can hear it now: you’re not curious about money because you’ve always had some! Well. Yeah. I mean, my folks weren’t rich or anything—my mom was a teacher, for cripe’s sake—but they never wondered if there’d be money left at the end of the month, either. I’m not gonna apologize for being born into the upper-middle class. There were all sorts of more important things to apologize for.
Besides, there was always the chance I had Nick/Dick mixed up with someone else. That happened a lot. Shit, sometimes I got myself mixed up with someone else.
Well! Time to grasp the D-Nick by the horns. There wasn’t a subtle or classy way to ask, so . . . “Are you rich right now?”
D-Nick gasped. “You remembered! I am
im
-pressed, oh attentive undead queen with the short-term memory of a tree frog. Half the time you’re telling me to dress better, the other half you’re telling me it’s disgraceful for a trust-fund baby to hog the last of the milk. Time travel has been good for you.”
im
-pressed, oh attentive undead queen with the short-term memory of a tree frog. Half the time you’re telling me to dress better, the other half you’re telling me it’s disgraceful for a trust-fund baby to hog the last of the milk. Time travel has been good for you.”
“That’s a lie and you know it.”
It helped that he was rich, which is why I’d asked; Jess had been screening gold-diggers out of her dating pool since before she graduated high school. In fact, if Nickie/Dickie hadn’t been rich, I wondered if their relationship would have come this far.
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