Undead and Uneasy (12 page)

"Place" came out like "placcccce" because Tina hissed it as opposed to saying it like person who wasn't half crazy with guilt and grief.

More riots in France! Perfect timing. So typical of France not to consider my needs before

passing martial law.

"I know it seems tough, but they'll eventually let planes out, they've got to. For one thing,

FedEx can't get there. People need their overnight packages, Tina! They want their

Sephora and their cheese. The French people won't stand for it, trust me, the airports

won't be closed for long. Or at least get out of the country and take a plane from a country

that isn't rioting in the streets."

"That is . . . excellent advice, Majesty." I could hear the surprise in her voice, but couldn't blame her. It was weird enough Tina hadn't thought of it. Weirder that I had. It showed

how upset she real was. And how convinced she was that Sinclair was dead, how rattled

her conclusions had made her. "I will start at once. With your permission, I will not waste

your time with phone calls unless I have new to report."

"That's fine, Tina."

"And, Majesty?"

"Yeah?"

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)

"Consider now following my advice. Do not answer the phone, do not answer the door. I

doubt whoever ki—"

"Don't say it!"

"—I doubt whoever detained His Majesty will U content only with him."

"That's better. Detained. Yep, that's the word of the day, all right. Listen, be careful."

"You took the words," she said, "right out of my mouth." And without so much as a "See ya later, gator," she hung up.

He is not dead.

He is not dead.

He is not dead, because if he was? I'd kill him.

But I had to face facts. Sinclair wasn't sulking. For one thing, it wasn't his style. He liked

to engage, not withdraw. For another, as silly as he thought the wedding stuff was? He'd

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) never stick me with all of the prep less than two weeks before the big day.

Well, he might stick me with it, but he wouldn't out-and-out disappear on me. Even when

I thought I hated him, he'd been impossible to get rid of Now, when we loved each other,

he'd made himself scarce? Not likely.

Tina was half right: someone had snatched him. 1 Id who? And how come? And where the

heck was he?

I glanced over and saw Babyjon had tired of playing with his soft blocks and toppled over

on his side, one thumb corking his mouth shut. He watched me with sleepy blue eyes as I

paced, as I grumbled and thought and chewed my nails and prowled back and forth.

Finally I sat down at the kitchen table, folded my hands, looked at my folded hands, and

thought:this is not a coincidence.

I thought:Sinclair and Marc and Antonia and Garrett and Cathie and Tina and Jessica and

Nick and a double funeral and Laura and my mom? All those people either missing or

deliberately absenting themselves from my life? And now, of all times? The week my dad

and the Ant died? Two weeks before I married the King of the Vampires? Granted, I

remember wishing everyone would leave me alone for a few days, but this was ridiculous.

I thought:Who killed my father and my stepmother? Because this was all just a little too

neat, you know? Too neat by a damn shot.

Didn't they know they were fucking with the queen of the vampires? (Whoever "they"

were?) Didn't (hey know what I—we—could do to them?

Sure they did. They just didn't care. They didn't think I was a threat; no vampire had ever

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) thought I was a threat. They only believed me as I was killing them. And even then, the

rumor spread that Sinclair had really done it. Even the European faction had taken a damn

year to pay their respects.

And who was I kidding, calling myself a vampire queen? If I didn't believe the Book of the

Dead said Sinclair and I were married, how could I believe it about anything else?Can't

have it both ways, Bets , as Jessica might have said.

So who had seen my weakness, and acted?

And what the blue hell was I going to do about it?

This was, of course, assuming it was all about me.

I almost laughed. Of course this was all about me! Just not in a good way.

I picked up the phone, dialed my mom's number, and waited for her to answer. "Mom?

Listen, I need a favor. The shit's hitting the fan over here, and I don't think it's safe for

Babyjon. Can you take him for a couple of days?

"Mom?

"Hello?"

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) Chapter 22

“Just what do you think you're doing, young lady?"

I stared at my mom, whose white curls were straggly in her wrath. She'd roared right over

to the mansion in her Honda to kick my ass. I was just having trouble figuring out . . .

"You want to know why I'm so angry?"

"Not really."

"I'll tell you why. You are responsible for this infant." She pointed a nonmanicured index

finger at Babyjon, who yawned. "You. Not me. Not your sister."

"Did Laura talk to—"

"You. And at the first sign of trouble—"

"The first?" I yelped.

"—you come running to me to kiss your boo-boos and make everything all better. Well, I

can't, Betsy. You're a grown woman, and it's about time you started acting like one."

I looked at my mother, Dr. "Suburbs" Taylor, with real irritation. I hadn't felt this close to

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) smacking her since I was fourteen and she'd caught me with her credit cards at the

Burnsville Mall (she knew what that shoe sale meant to me!).

I was a grown woman, and it was about time I started acting like one, eh? Well, let's see.

Let's think about all the things this grown woman did that Dr. Taylor, safe in her book

stacks, had no clue ever happened.

There was the overthrowing of not one, but two vampire psychopaths. There was the

tracking down and dispatching of the serial killer (though technically Laura got the kill

claim on that one). There was taking on the responsibility of governing the vampire nation,

whatever the hell that was. The tension of the European faction finally visiting, and

solving thatsubsequent murder. And the zombie in my attic that showed up from God

knows where, God knows why, which I had to kill. By myself.

Oh! And let's not forget about the pack of werewolves who showed up trying to tear my

head off!

All right, to be fair, it wasn't her fault she did in know about any of the above. I had made

a conscious choice to leave her out of the vampire side of things, .1 choice wholeheartedly

endorsed by Sinclair and Tina.

But the stuff she knew about was bad enough: the tension of the wedding, not to mention

the funerals. Oh! And suddenly being the guardian of a baby. Almost forgot that one! And

if she was vague on the details of my vampiric lifestyle, she at least knew the basics: I had

died, I had come back, and my life was infinitely more complicated as a result. Oh, and my

father had justdied .

Ah, but the broad had a few more left. "Really, Betsy. At the first sign of trouble, your

impulse is to dump your problems on someone else. You've got to grow up."

"Are you taking him for the next two days, or aren't you?"

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) My chilly tone must have startled her, because she finally paused for a few seconds, then

said, a tad on me meek side, "Of course I'll take him. Laura promised to give me a hand. I

just wanted you to know— to realize what you—I just don't want you to get in the habit

of—"

Yawn. I had no time for this. I handed her Babyjon, snug in his carrier (the base was on

the front porch, where Mom would pluck it and then strap it unto her backseat), and the

diaper bag with the Babycrap™. "Thank you. Good-bye."

Mom hesitated, glanced down at the baby, then hurriedly looked back up at me. But not

so fast I didn't see the flash of distaste cross her features.

Ah-ha. And duh. Should have guessed that one. "I appreciate that babysitting the living

embodiment of your late ex-husband's faithlessness can't be easy, but I 'm not exactly

having a fun week, either, Mother."

"I—I know, Betsy, it's just that—"

"I have work to do, Mother."

"What kind of work?"

"Just a pedicure. You know. The usual thing since I died and came back as a vampire.

Thanks for helping me out of yet another frivolous jam."

"Betsy—if I spoke without thinking—"

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) I picked up the phone and stared at her. She clutched the car seat to her, then grimaced

and eased up on her grip. Babyjon just watched her. So did I.

"Betsy, is there something you want to talk about?”

"Not anymore." I started to dial Minneapolis General. "If you'll excuse me, I need to call the oncology ward. You know, my best friend's new digs? Boy, talk about frivolous! You

should hear her bitching about all the puking the chemo makes her do Maybe I should

send you over for a pep talk."

"I went and put my foot in it, then," Mom said, sounding so much more like her old,

supportive sell that I almost weakened. "And not only was I unfair, but I've got lousy

timing, is that it? Well, you're right and I'm sorry. Other than—this—" She frowned down

at the baby. "Is there another way I can help?"

"Don't be silly, Mom. I know how hard you're working this month, what with your

department not teaching courses all summer."

"Fair enough." She started for the foyer. "When you're ready to listen to me grovel, I'll be glad to do so. For now, dear, please call me if you need anything else. And yes, I'm aware

of the irony of encouraging you to call me after this argument."

Good thing I don't have to point it out, then!" I yelled after her.

While I waited to be connected to Jessica's room,

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) I pondered the odd series of events that led to my mother babysitting her dead rival's

youngest child. I hadn’t wanted to call Mom—I wasn't entirely insensitive. On that topic,

anyway. And I hadn't been able to reach Laura . . . most likely because she was busy

calling my mom. It sounded like they'd already had at least one conversation today, topic:

Babyjon.

But it just wasn't safe around here for Babyjon right now. Shit, it wasn't safe forme . I'd

take a lot of chances with my own safety, no problem.

But not Babyjon's, possibly the only baby, ever, who was going to be really mine.

Some jerk of a male nurse wouldn't connect me (why oh why didn't my vampire mojo

work over phone lines?), so I disobeyed Tina (hey, it was that kind of week), hopped in

one of Sinclair's Volkswagens (my Ford was in the shop—it needed a new starter), and

was at Minneapolis General in fifteen minutes. (One of the blessings of being undead? I

never faced rush hour anymore.)

Sure, at 10:00 p.m. it was way past visiting hours, like I gave a rat fuck. Even when I was

alive, I wouldn't have cared. Because I, Betsy Taylor, was . . . an ex-model!

The key to not getting kicked out of a given restricted area is to stride briskly and look

like you have every right to be there. (I learned this my first week as a model . . . in fact, I

got backstage passes to Aerosmith that way.) Being tall helped, too. And pretty.

Look, I've never made a secret of the fact that I was genetically blessed. To ignore said

blessings would be like a great painter throwing away her brushes. Or Jessica not using

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) any of her money just because she inherited it from her scumbag father. Why make life

harder by not using what you had?

Anyway, I was striding down the hall toward Jessica's room, having made it past reception

to the elevator bank, past several nurse's stations, and I was about thirty feet away from

being home—

"Excuse me? Visiting hours are over."

I turned and smiled. Visiting Hour Enforcer smiled back. My smile broadened when I

noticed the lack of wedding ring on Nurse Guy's finger. He was a cutie, too—about five

ten, curly black hair cut short, flawless dark skin the color of expensive coffee. Big,

gorgeous dark eyes, the whites almost bluish with health. He smelled like cotton candy

and French fries. Two of my favorites!

So we were grinning at each other like a couple of idiots, when I remembered I had a

mission, and he remembered the same.

"Listen, sorry to be a dick, but visiting hours were over a while ago. But if you want to

leave your phone number, I could call you when we're back up for guests."

I laughed at his audacity. T. Starr, R.N., his name tag read. "I'm getting married in a few

days, T. Starr," I replied. "But that's the nicest offer I've had all week."