Undead and Unpopular (11 page)

I felt my own fangs pop out and had to look away.

I could (maybe) give up blood; Sinclair could not. But taking blood was downright sexual for us, so we'd compromised: we'd go out together. One-night stands only for him.

Did I like it? I did not. I fucking hated it. I should be the one he was growling over, the one in his arms. By choice, I was not. But I felt like a pimp.

He pulled free and her head lolled against his shoulder. He looked at me with a vicious gleam in his eyes, blood staining his grin. "Like some? There's plenty."

Yes! Hand her over! No, hell with her, bite me now, and I'll bite you, and that's how it'll be for a thousand years…

"Let her go."

He dropped her. "As you wish." He bent, tucked a business card from the nearest shelter into her top, straightened. Licked his teeth. "Ummm. She needs more fatty acids in her diet. And less crack. Shall we go?"

I shivered. "Eric, I love you, but sometimes you give me
such
a case of the creeps."

He smiled at me. "Good."

We took our bloodlust straight to the downtown Marriott, where Sinclair, the sneaky bastard, had booked a room. We'd barely made it through the door when we started tearing off our clothes, groping, kissing, sucking—everything but biting. And God, it was hard. It was like jerking off and not letting yourself come. Why, why, why was I doing this?

Because I would not be ruled by my fiendish blood-lust. I was the queen; it had to count for something. I was my own person, not a slave to my hungers.

I managed to keep those coherent thoughts until Sinclair tossed me on the bed, ripped through my skirt and panties, pushed my legs apart, and stuck his tongue inside me. I wrapped my legs around his neck and rode his mouth, both of us clawing through the bedspread. Then he was rearing over me, holding me apart with trembling fingers as he rammed into me with no finesse whatsoever. I didn't hold it against him.

Elizabeth you queen you brat you darling

"Back atcha," I groaned while he pumped and worked between my legs, while I bit my own lip so I wouldn't bite him, wouldn't eat him like the wolf ate Red Riding Hood.

Another weird queen thing: I could read Eric's mind during sex. He couldn't read mine. Yeah, that had gone over well. I'd finally told him, at the worst possible time, but the good news was, he hadn't had the worst possible reaction. We'd patched things up, but it hadn't been easy.

I can't believe I'm going along with your stupid bid for independence I should have you over my knee this minute

"Later," I panted. "You can spank me later."

I will you brat you lovely you darling

I yelled at the ceiling as I came, yelled and clutched at him and tried to pull him farther into myself. He slid his hands beneath my ass and pinched me viciously as he shuddered into orgasm.

"Owwwww."

He rested his forehead on mine for a long moment.

"What was that for?" I bitched. To hell with afterglow.

"You deserve that and worse," he said, rolling off me. "Cutting me off from my favorite blood source. Why don't you take my testicles while you're at it?"

"Stop whining. If you really minded, there wouldn't be a thing
I
could do about it."

He smiled thinly, and contemplated the ruin of our clothes. "You really think so, don't you, darling?"

"What are you bitching about? You got fed, you got laid. No baby in sight. The whole night in front of us—alone."

The smile came again, a little more real this time. "Sometimes," he said, "you almost make sense."

"Yeah, well, sometimes I have panties on. What'd you do, eat them? There's scraps of clothing all over the place."

"I took the liberty of packing a bag."

"Well, thank goodness. You didn't, uh,
like
that whore, did you?"

He pulled me on top of him and suddenly I was looking into his black eyes, which, since I had just been looking around for my underpants, was startling. "You know my heart and my soul," he said quietly, tenderly. "You can read my mind, something no one else on the planet can do. There is. No. Comparison." He shook me a little at each word to make his point. "Though I must say I find your insecurity quite charming."

"Shut up. I'm sorry to make you drink from strange women—"

"
I
don't mind," he said silkily.

"—it's just something I have to do for myself, you know? Not drink, I mean. I know it seems dumb to you—what'd you call it? My stupid bid for independence? If I was you, I'd probably think it was dumb, too. But it just seems—this whole past year—like I've been on a ride I can't get off. This is something I can control. I'm sorry if it screws you over." To my surprise, I suddenly felt like crying.

He hugged me to him. "Darling, don't do that. I know what it's like to be a slave to the thirst. I think what you do is wondrous. I'll support you as long as you—"

"Can hold out?"

"—decide to stay with this course of action," he corrected himself.

"Thanks. For a puke, you can be pretty nice sometimes."

"Crumbs from the lady's table," he said with grim good humor, and got up to find the overnight bag.

Later, we made love again, slowly and tenderly, sliding against each other and purring like the big predators we were. And for a whole night, I didn't think about BabyJon or Sophie or Alonzo, or even Jessica.

"There's a zombie in the attic," Cathie said, and I nearly yakked up my gum. She was a ghost—literally, the spirit of a dead person—and as she spoke she floated through the wall, into my bedroom. Cathie had been a tall woman, almost as tall as me, with honey-tinted hair pulled back in a perpetual ponytail, a green sweatshirt, and black stretch pants. Barefoot. For eternity! At least her feet were attractive. They were little and pretty, with unpolished but nicely shaped toenails.

"This is no time for your quirky sense of humor."

I snapped as I lugged a pile of near-empty journals into my closet. It never failed—I'd buy a new journal, write like a madwoman for ten pages, then lose total interest in the process. Three months later, I'd start the whole process all over again. I think I just liked buying new notebooks.

"Well, well! You seem touchy! What's the matter, didn't get laid last night?"

It was scary how much she sounded like me sometimes. Maybe that's why she totally got on my nerves. "That's not the problem at all. I just hate it when you dart out of solid walls to tell me ridiculous stories."

"Well, it's not like I have a choice," she said crossly, floating through my bathroom door and then back out again. "After all, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. You'd walk through walls, too, if you could. And it's not like I can ring a doorbell to get your attention. As for the zombie—is it my fault you're in denial about reanimated corpses?"

"
I'm
a reanimated corpse," I said glumly. "Let me deal with that. There's no such thing as zombies anyway."

Cathie stuck her head into the wall (probably just to creep me out, since she knew it drove me crazy), pulled it back out, and said, "Why do I bother?" and stuck it back in. "Where is everybody?"

"Sinclair isn't up yet, ditto Tina, Jessica's at an appointment, Marc's at work, Toni and Garrett haven't left her bedroom since she got back, and I
was
enjoying my privacy."

"Too bad. I'm bored, and you guys are exciting company."

She'd been killed by a serial killer a few months ago, and had come to me for help. Unlike other ghosts who came to me for help, once she got what she wanted, she stayed. I wasn't a vampire queen, I was a damn soul collector. Nobody left; they all just chained themselves to me like eternal chattel. But they were all too fucking sassy for the phenomenon to be nattering.

"I bring good news from the underworld," she was booming in a terrible Vincent Price imitation. "All's quiet on the Midwestern Front."

"Yeah?"

"Well, there have been ghosts, but I've been helping them."

"You've been helping ghosts who seek my favor, without even telling me? So you're like my—"

"You know those Hollywood assistants who handle all the producer's problems so she can concentrate on making movies? That's what I do now. I help the little people."

"You want to make movies?" She had lost me. And so soon in the conversation, too.

"No, dumb shit, I'm like the assistant who tends to the little people."

I felt my eyes bulge. "I don't think you should call them that."

"I'm doing you a favor, okay? Usually these ghosts just want someone to listen, maybe point them in the right direction. You've got higher priorities right now, I gather."

"Well, thanks." I must not have sounded convincing, because she glared at me. "No, really. Thanks. The last thing I need this week is another needy ghost dropping by for favors."

"You're welcome. It's actually kind of nice. They can see me and talk to me, just like you. I mean, look at my options! I have to talk to you, or I can talk to them."

"Well, you've made the right choice," I said with faux enthusiasm.

"Don't get too down. At least your hot, hunky boyfriend can see you and touch you. Your friends can see you and touch you. What have I got? A distracted vampire with a long to-do list ahead of me and my problems."

"Cathie, that's not true!" I couldn't believe I was getting a lecture from a woman in a green sweatshirt. "I solved your problem right away, didn't I? The bad guy's dead, if memory serves."

"Yeah," she said, cheering up. "Your sister cracked his head open like an egg."

"So what do you want from me now?"

"I dunno. But there's got to be more than
this
." She sulkily floated through the wall.

"Tell me about it!" I shouted after her.

Because things weren't awful enough, an hour later Marjorie the scary librarian popped by and chimed the bell. I put my foot down: no. Just because people—

"Very old, very powerful vampires," Sinclair interrupted.

—stopped by without proper planning or scheduling—

"She says it's an emergency. You want her to plan her emergencies?"

—didn't mean I had to drop everything and rush to the parlor.

"No one was in the parlor," Marjorie announced, pushing open the swinging door into the kitchen, "so I let myself in."

Tina followed closely on the librarian's heels with a pained, helpless expression. I gave Sinclair a look.

"Ah," he began. "Marjorie. So good to see you again. But perhaps now—"

"Majesty," the elder vampire said, dipping her head. "Very rude to barge in, I know; but what I have is extremely important."

"Of course it is," I sighed. "A nice new crisis you're gonna drop in my lap."

"Are you suggesting, Majesty, that I should let all important matters run their course without your intervention?" She smiled a little and fiddled with her sweater cuffs.

No, just call first.

Marjorie looked around the kitchen approvingly. The big wooden table in the center had plenty of chairs for all of us. More than enough to hold Sinclair, Tina, Jessica, and me. Everybody else was—heck, I didn't know, what was I, the fucking family calendar?

Marjorie was a severe-looking woman of ordinary height, dark hair 'with gray wings at the temples, and sensible shoes. She ran the vampire library in the warehouse district—the biggest, I had been told, in the Midwest.

She tried to keep tabs on all vampires, recently turned or otherwise, kept their mortgages and bills paid up (in the case of new vampires, that was especially nice… if they ever came back to themselves they would find a home and their credit rate unaltered), kept nice neat computer files (or, in earlier ages, carefully maintained paper files) on everyone she could. How
did
she do that? No one knew.

Anyway, she had been around before Nostro's time (Nostro = deceased disgusting despot), and before Nostro's sire's time, too. She had little interest in explicit displays of power, which was probably good news for the rest of us. Just stayed in her library, organizing lives, collecting a different sort of power—one that wasn't so intrusive, but nevertheless caught our attention when gently applied.

Anyway, she had that look of relieved approval because she saw a traditional scene that must have warmed her heart: the king and queen, with lackey (Tina) in attendance, with presumed blood-sheep (Marc and Jessica) close at hand.