Undead and Uneasy (7 page)

vampire. Don't get me wrong; I'd prefer to be alive. But if I had to be dead . . . "Tina, that

sucks."

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"Recent circumstances are highly suspect. The king would not leave you for so

long —"

"It's only been a few days—"

"—nor would he ignore my messages. Something is wrong."

"He doesn't want to wear the navy blue tux I picked out?" I guessed.

"Majesty. This is serious."

I shrugged, forgetting she couldn't see me. "If you say so."

"Until I return, do not answer the door. You will not try to contact anyone who has gone

missing. You will not answer the phone unless the caller ID tells you it is me." Her

subservient tone was long gone; this was a general thinking fast and issuing orders. "Your

Majesty, do you understand me?"

"Uh, sure. Simmer."

"I will simmer," she hissed, "when I get a few heads on sticks. And the devil pity the rat fuck who gets i my way."

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"Yeesh."

"Heads. On. Sticks."

"I got it the first time."

On that happy note, she hung up.

I broke one of the rules less than twenty-four hours liter. I blamed sleep deprivation.

Despite my efforts over the last three days, Babyjon still had the whole "stay awake at

nighttime" thing a little mixed up. (But then, so did I.)

Small wonder. The Ant, Satan rest her soul, had stuck him with night nannies all the time,

and they had encouraged him to sleep so they could goof off.

I groped for the bedside phone, forgetting to check the caller ID. "Mmph . . . lo?"

"—can—hear—"

For a change, I actually identified the crack In voice. "Marc! Where the hell are you?"

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"—can't—make—drop—"

"Are you hurt? Are you in trouble?"

"—trouble—fucked—death"

"Oh my God!" I screamed, instantly snapping all the way awake. I glanced at the bedside

clock; four-thirty in the afternoon. In his port-a-crib, Babyjon snored away. "Youare in

trouble! Can you get to a computer? Can you send me an e-mail? Why aren't you

answering my e-mails? Tell me where you are, and I'll come get you!" With a baby in tow ,

I neglected to add.

"—can't—worry—trouble—"

"Where are you?" I hollered.

"—dusk—dark—come—"

"I'll come, I'll come! Whereare you?"

' —see—stars—'

"Marc?"

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"—worried—"

"Marc?!" I was yelling into a dead line.

That was it. That wasit . 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 luck. 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,

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) 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."

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) 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.

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) 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?

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) 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, ire 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—youknew ?" 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

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) 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 complained, 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 icon 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."

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"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 fixher ."

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 ;i 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?"