Undead and Uneasy (11 page)

"So I, the most charming and handsome werewolf in all the land—"

"Should I throw up here on the stairs? Or try t wait until I can find a garbage can?"

"—will catch you off-guard with my witticism and charisma."

"And don't forget your sexy Martha Stewart T-shirt."

"Hey, hey. Don't diss my girl Martha. She could kick your fine undead ass with one

homemade seashell napkin holder behind her back."

"Derik, you're seriously bent, you know that?" He ignored me. "And then I, fearless Pack member, shall swoop down on the truth like a crow on a grub."

"Did you just call me a worm?"

"I did not," he said, following me into the nursery. "I called you a grub. Big difference.

Huge!"

I laughed; I couldn't help it. The big doof probably was the most charming werewolf in all

the land. "Dude, you really are the—eh?"

I had reached the crib, bent over, plucked Babyjon it And was surprised to be alone. I

turned and Derik was—there was no other word for it—he was cowering beside the

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) nursery door.

"What's going on?" I asked, completely startled to see the six-foot-plus blond huddling in

terror.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing. Jesus!" He forced himself to straighten, shook

himself all over, then cupped his elbows in his palms. It almost looked like—it looked like

the big strong badass werewolf was hugging himself for comfort. But that couldn't be

right. "Every hair on my body is trying to jump ship right now. Least that's what it feels

like. I've got the worst fucking case of the creeps. I—what's that?"

"This is my baby brother." Babyjon wasn't crying or anything. I had slung him over one of

my hips, and he was just looking at Derik, patiently waiting for his bottle. What a sweetie.

Orphaned, and hungry. And not crying! "Isn't he the cutest?"

"Keep him away from me," Derik ordered, actually backing out of the room. Guess he

wasn't fond of babies. "It feels like thirteen o'clock in here."

"Derik, what the hell's gotten into you?" I followed him out into the hall, genuinely

puzzled. If Michael had sent his Good Guy WereCop after me to try to lit for more info,

this was a -weird way to go about it. "You're acting all—"

"Don't do that!" Both Derik's hands shot out palm up. He was—warding me off? No way.

I had it wrong. I was misreading werewolf body language, or whatever. "I might have to

bite you. And not in a nice way, get it? So just—aaaaiiieeeeee!"

He said aaaaiiieeeeee because at that moment he fell down the stairs. All the way down.

And with my hands full of Babyjon, I had no chance to catch him. So I just stared,

cringing at some of the thuds and wincing at some of Derik's more colorful language as he

plummeted to the bottom.

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) I sighed. Then I put Babyjon back in his crib, ignoring his surprised squawk, shut the

nursery door, and started down the stairs.

There was no way they were going to believe Derik fell down the stairs—all the stairs—

without assistance. I assumed there was going to be another fight. Best to get it over with.

Too bad, really. Just when I thought we'd established a little trust.

“Well, thanks for stopping by," I said again, and it was even more lame than the first time I

said it.

Derik, upon his quick recovery, had done some fast talking to save me from another

werewolf beat-down, and now they were all leaving. And not being very subtle about

wanting to get the hell out of my house, either. If I hadn't felt so anxious, I would have

been amused.

Derik limped past me, which was a big improvement, because he'd broken both legs when

he'd hit bottom. These guys regenerated as fast as Sinclair and me . . . maybe faster. Must

be their iron-rich, high-in-protein diet. Mmm . . . their yummy, yum diet. I was drooling

just watching them file past. Why had I never noticed how delicious Antonia was?

Easy. When Antonia was around, Sinclair had als4 been around, and his blood was just

fine. More than fine. We'd actually incorporated blood-sharing into our lovemaking and

now, like a Pavlovian dog (or George on the Seinfeld episode when he equated salted

cured meats with sex), all I had to do was get a whiff of someone's delicious blood and

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) also find myself horny as hell. Which wasn't exactly—

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Derik asked, massaging his knee.

"Uh. No reason. Thanks again for visiting. And good luck picking up Antonia's scent."

I'd offered to show them her and Garrett's room, let them get I whiff of the sheets or

whatever, and they'd all looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.

I guess I was picturing a scene right out of a cop movie: baying bloodhounds sniffing

sheets or a dirty sweater and then howling off into the night, hot on the trail. Apparently

real life was different. And werewolves weren't bloodhounds.

Which was a shame, because bloodhounds were really cute.

"Crazy fucking vampire," Jeannie muttered, so softly she probably assumed I hadn't heard

her.

"Don't forget your parting gifts!" I cried, sending Lara after them with a helpful shove.

"Thanks for your hospitality," Michael said without the teensiest bit of irony. We shook

hands as the others filed past. He squeezed. I squeezed. He squeezed harder. So did I. I

figured anybody else's hands would have been crushed to bloody powder by now. "We'll

be doing some checking around town and will keep you posted," he added, slightly out of

breath from our mano a bimbo.

"And I'll call you"—I held up the card with his cell phone number on it—"if I hear

anything from either of them."

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"Thanks. Have a good night."

"You, too. Bye, Derik. Cain. Brendon. Lara. Jeannie. Michael."

"Betsy," Jeannie said, "I want to make clear that I only shot you because—"

I shut the door. And since it was a big heavy door about two hundred years old, it cut her

off with solid BOOM!

Did I think they had anything to do with everything that was going on? No. I really didn't.

Werewolves weren't exactly famous for lying or subversiveness. I seriously doubted

they'd—what? Snatched Antonia back, staked Garrett, then shown up at my house and

staged I pretend fight, all the while playing like they had no idea where Antonia and

Garrett were?

Vampires would pull that sneaky shit in a cold minute. The Wyndham bunch? Naw.

Probably naw. Their appearance today was still an awful coincidence.

It was either a really really good thing that the werewolves were in town right now, or a

really really bad thing. Too bad I had no idea which it was.

I took the stairs two at a time, plucked a fuming Babyjon out of his crib, fixed a fresh

bottle (he liked 'em cold, and we kept a supply in the small fridge in his room), and let the

poor starving tyke have at it. While I was walking with him back to the kitchen, I

wondered about Derik's extreme reaction to my half brother. Hadn't he said that his wife

was pregnant? Maybe babies freaked him out.

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) I cuddled Babyjon closer into my side and kissed the top of his fuzzy dark head. "Guess

he'd better get over that in a hurry," I told him. "Unless he likes sleeping on the sorceress's couch."

The phone rang as I got near the swinging door, and I grimaced. What fresh hell was this?

“Majesty?"

"Tina? Hey, finally! Great to hear from you!" From anybody without fur, frankly. "What's going on?"

"Nothing good, Majesty, I assure you." She made a sound that from anyone but Tina

would have come off sounding like a snort. "Are you well?"

"Oh, sure. A bunch of werewolves stopped by to pick a fight, but—"

"You mean they broke in?" Tina interrupted. Since she never interrupted, I assumed she

had to be fairly shocked. Then I remembered her strict instructions, most (or all? I couldn't

remember all of them, to be honest) of which I'd broken since we last spoke.

Lucky for me she was half a continent, plus an ocean, away. She could only scold; she

couldn't strangle.

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"Well, no. They didn't break, exactly. They, um, knocked."

"And you let themin ?"

"Like I said. Knocked. Then, the fight. Which I won, so don't worry." I decided not to

mention Jeannie "Quick Draw" Wyndham. Tina hated it when I got shot. "Turns out they

thought we were being sneaky, because Antonia hasn't checked in with them."

"Um."

"But I convinced them that we hadn't done away with her or anything, using my Kissinger-

like powers of diplomacy."

"Um-hum."

"Now we're buddies!" I tried to put as much enthusiasm as I could into that lie. I mean

line. "Isn't that great? Even as we speak, they're scouring the town, looking for the hair of

Antonia's chinny-chin-chin. Wait, that was the pigs, right? That line made no sense, then.

Let me think of—"

"Majesty! I must beg you to—"

"I know, I know. I've been answering the phone and the door. It's all gone horribly,

horribly wrong, and all because I didn't listen to you." I slung, Babyjon over my shoulder

to burp him, tossing the now-empty bottle in the general direction of the sink. "If only I

had listened." Babyjon yawned, and I knew how he felt. The lecture loometh.

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"Majesty, I do not wish to alarm you—"

"Then don't."

"But I fear the king may be dead."

"See, that? I find that alarming." I whacked Babyjon a little too hard, because he

groaned—then belched. I plunked him into the port-a-crib so I could pace.

"I'm sorry, Majesty, but it is the only conclusion that fits the data."

"What the hell makes you think that?"

"He would have answered me by now, Majesty. In seventy-some years, he has never not

answered me. We have a code we use for emergencies, and the other one, no matter what

is happening in his or her life, the other one must answer. And he has not."

"He blew off your super secret vampire code?"

"I realize that infantile jokes are your way of dealing with serious issues, but with all due

respect, Majesty, now is not the time."

"Noted," I said, chastened.

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"He is not sulking, as you think. He is not hiding. He is not shirking his duties as your

groom. And more—"

"What? There's more? What?"

"He would never abandon the queen," she said quietly. "No matter how silly he thought

the wedding rituals. Someone has him. Or someone has killed him.”

"What—what are we going to do?"

I heard a thud and realized that Tina, from eighty zillion miles away, had punched a wall.

"I. Will do. Nothing!" Another thud. She was pounding the wall like Rocky Balboa

worked a punching bag. "I cannot get back to you. There are riots in France , and all

flights are canceled until further notice."

"Riots?"

"Surely you saw on CNN—never mind."

"Oh, the riots! Right, right. The riots. Those pesky French riots."

She ignored my lame-ass attempt to pretend I was up on current events. "I cannot even

charter a private plane. To go by boat would take too long. I am trapped here, Majesty.

And you are alone."

"Tina, it's—" Okay , I had been about to say, a who was I kidding? Tina, one of the

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) smartest people I'd ever met, thought Sinclair was dead.Ergo , he…wasn't.

I would take refuge in my stubbornness. She was wrong, wrong, wrong and also needed a

deep conditioning treatment. I wouldn't let the panic take hold. I wouldn't. It couldn't have

me. The panic would have to find someone else to bug;I wasn't going to play ball. Sinclair

wasn't dead. Or even in danger.

Tina was wrong. This one time, in a matter that was as important to her as it was to me,

this one time she had screwed up. Who knew why? The stress of being away from home?

The hassle of going through Customs via coffin? The important thing was, she was

stressed out and jumping to conclusions. Because the alternative was totally beyond my

grasp. I couldn't imagine a world without Sinclair in it. And wasn't that silly? Two years

ago, I hadn't even known the guy existed.

"Tina, stop hitting that wall. You're going to hurt yourself."

"I did," she said dully. "I broke most of the fingers my left hand."

"Jeez, what are you punching, cement?"

"Yes."

"Well, stop. Focus on getting back."

"But the rioters—the roads are closed, or barricaded.

No one can get in or out. I cannot help you, my queen,

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) I am stuck in this place."