Undead and Uneasy (8 page)

"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?"

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"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?

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 ig to do? What the fuck was I going to do?

Mojoing him was out. Sinclair's clearly hadn't ¦ken. Or had taken for a while and then

worn off.

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) 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 die 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.

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) 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 ¦Other. 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 Bowers? 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 .it the EW? 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.

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“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 m 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.

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) In response, I grabbed his ankle and twisted his foot all the way around. A hundred eighty

degrees! Or would that be three sixty? Either way, he howled—an actual howl, like a

dog!—and fell backward, losing his balance as his pulverized ankle collapsed under his

weight. I flipped to my feet (well, more like staggered, but the important thing is, I was

standing), momentarily triumphant.

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 List. 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.

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) 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.

I shouldn't have been smiling, I should have been pissed. Okay, I was pissed. But at least I

was doing something instead of waiting for the phone to ring. If I couldn't squabble with

Sinclair or bitch to Jessica, a knock-down, drag-out fight in my foyer was the next best

thing.

Wedding Ring Asshole was coming for me again. and I watched in amazement as he

limped, limped less, and, by the time he reached me, wasn't limping at all. I was so busy

gaping I nearly forgot to duck as that ham-sized fist looped toward my head again.

Nearly. Instead I sidestepped the punch and shoved the guy so hard into the wall that the

plaster (or whatever old walls are made out of) cracked all the way up to the ceiling.

Note to self: do not mention all the household repairs to Jessica until she is back on her

feet.

The effect was so much fun I grabbed him by the hair and threw him into the wall again.

Wheee!

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"Don't hurt my daddy!" someone shrieked, and I was horrified to see a girl of about six

standing to the side, white faced. How had I missed her? Besides the fact that the adults

had all converged on me at once, like IRS agents on a small business owner?

"Are you people all crazy?" I cried. "You brought a little girl to a fistfight?"

I was so shocked that I didn't move fast enough to avoid the bullets: one to my heart, two

to my left lung.

"Jeannie, no!" Wedding Ring Asshole howled, as I went down and down and down and

down . . .

I opened my eyes to see a ring of faces around me. Since none of them were the faces I

wanted so desperately to see, I responded in the usual way: by yelling. "Gah!"

"I think we'd better take you to the hospital," a curly haired blond woman I hadn't noticed

before said. Since her hands reeked of gunpowder, and I could smell the leather of her

holster (fat lot of good it did me to notice that now), I had an idea who to thank for my

perforated heart. "Can you walk?"

"I think she should stay put. How would we explain this? We're fifteen hundred miles from

home. I'm not how many of the locals would be sympathetic."

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"Well, I think—"

" I think you psychos better get the hell out of my house!" I then spat blood in a fine cloud that they all 11 id at. Nauseating, yet weirdly pretty.Focus, Betsy.

I tried to sit up but, weirdly, they all had their hands on my chest, even the kid. I shrugged

them off (gently, for the kid's sake) and sat up. "Owwww, my heart." I furtively felt my

tits. "And my lung! You hums barge in, attack the hostess, then shoot her in front of a

child?"

"I'm no child," the child said, blinking her gold eyes at me. It reminded me of a cute little owl, and I chomped on my lip so I wouldn't smile at her. "I'm the next Pack leader." She

extended a small, chubby hand. "My name's Lara."

"So pleased to meet you, darling. Nice handshake. Now get out and take your psycho

guardians with you.”

"I don't think you should stand," Wedding Ring Asshole worried.

"You weren't too worried about my health five minutes ago," I snapped. "And I don't

think you should keep your hands on me for another half second." climbed unsteadily to

my feet. The room tilted, then steadied. Luckily I'd fed a couple of days ago—another

queen perk. All vampires had to feed every day. 'Cept me. I'd snacked on a homeless guy

on the way home, then picked him up (literally), ran the eleven blocks to the nearest

hospital (in three minutes), and dumped him at the ER for some blankets, TLC, and hot

food.

Anyway, the most helpful drunken darling had helped me more than he knew. I heard

three clinks as I the bullets worked their way out of my body and fell to the wooden floor.

I ignored them (must be a Tuesday!), but the other five stared at the misshapen bullets,

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) then at me, then at the bullets.

"Out, out,out ! " I reiterated, since they all seemed slow. Or hard of hearing. Or both.