Undead and Unreturnable (11 page)
"Yeah, kid fell out of his tree stand and bonked himself a good one," Marc said cheerfully, ignoring—or not hearing—"pet." "Bled all over me. I had to get a new scrub top, but man, do I need a shower. Hi, by the way," he added, sticking out his hand. "I'm Marc Spangler. I live here with Betsy and Eric."
She looked at the hand like he'd offered her a dead garter snake, and I could feel my eyes widen, practically bulge in their sockets. I got ready to rip her a new asshole—what was it with old vampires and being so shitty to regular people?—when Sinclair's hand clamped over mine… hard.
I yelped just as Marjorie decided to shake Marc's hand. "You live here with them?" she asked.
"Yup," he replied cheerfully. "It's not home, but it's much. Olivia Goldsmith wrote that, by the way."
"
Mmmm
. She's the one who died of liposuction, yes?"
"No," he corrected. "She died of complications after
lipo
."
"I see. If you live here with them, why do you go to a job?"
"Uh…" He actually thought it over for a couple seconds. "Because I'm not a two-legged parasite?"
"
Mmmm
." She caught the neckline of his scrub top and pulled; with a squeak, he bent down to her. He had a foot and thirty pounds on her, but she manhandled him (no pun intended) easily, like he was a mannequin made of feathers. "But you
haven't
been bitten," she said to his neck. "Yet.
Mmmm
…"
I opened my mouth.
Take your fucking hands off him NOW
was already in my head and trying to rush out of my mouth when Sinclair squeezed again. I groaned instead; I could feel the little bones in my hand grinding together. He wasn't hurting me, but I sure wouldn't want to spend a day doing that.
"Marjorie, don't you have business to be about?" he asked calmly.
Totally distracted, she looked up, and I was shocked to see her fangs had come out. "Eh? Oh." It was obvious, when she let go and Marc popped back upright, that she was massively disappointed. "Yes, of course. Forgive me. I haven't dined yet this evening, and it's made me forget my manners. I will take my leave."
"Nice to meet you!" Marc chirped. And as she bowed and then let herself out the front door, I looked at Marc and saw it: he didn't remember the last minute. He'd had no sense of being in danger, no sense of inappropriateness or cruelty from
Marjie
. As far as he was concerned, he'd met a nice older lady on his way in, and now he was going to grab a shower.
"I think I'll go grab a shower," he said. "Later, guys."
I started to have a dim idea why Sinclair had a) gotten rid of Jess, b) been polite under extreme provocation, and c) didn't let me hang myself.
"I hope you took a good look, dear," he said, listening to the car drive away. "Because that is the oldest vampire you're likely to ever meet."
"She's an asshole."
He shrugged. "She's old. It's… difficult to surprise her. You did, though." He smiled, and it was like the sun coming up on the last day of winter. "You did very well."
"It's hard to hate anyone who has such good taste in movies. Though if she'd put another hand on Marc, I would've had to bring down the spank."
He got this weird look on his face, like he was horrified but wanted to laugh, too. "You—you must not. Or, if you decide, you must discuss it with me first. Never touch her alone. Never, understand?"
"Okay, Sinclair. Because that's
sooooo
me. Maybe we can form a committee and vote on every single thing."
His eyes went narrow but he hung onto the smile. "Listen, please. She is old, as I have said, and she has many friends. Friends she made herself, if you understand my meaning. She is… I guess you would say she is set in her ways. The old ways."
"Yeah, I get it. She's old; she's a stubborn jerk; she thinks humans are moronic lunch boxes; she's got a million friends; and if she doesn't like me, she could cause a lot of trouble for me."
"Us," he corrected. "It's important to keep Marjorie and those like her on our side. When I went to
He'd never talked about the trip much. Brought me back a nice present and mentioned he'd met up with friends, and that was that. "Yeah?"
"Let's just say I was dismayed by how many vampires were
not
on our side."
"Yeah, but you fixed it, right? You always fix everything. Like tonight. And
ow
, by the way." I flexed my hand, which, if I'd still been alive, would have been throbbing painfully. "Next time just wave a hand puppet at me,
willya
? I
need
this hand."
"To write your 'Dear Betsy' column."
"Was that an eye roll?" I demanded. "Are you rolling your eyes at me, Eric Sinclair?"
"Oh, no, beloved. I would never so disrespect my queen."
I laughed. "You're so full of shit your eyes are brown."
"They
are
brown," he admitted, taking me in his arms. He kissed me for such a lovely long time, I forgot about Margaret.
Marjie
. Whoever.
"This really isn't the time or place," I muttered into his mouth as he lowered me to one of the phenomenally uncomfortable couches in the parlor.
"I'll have ample notice if someone is coming," he said, pulling open my blouse and yanking my pants down to my knees.
"What if I'm the one coming?" I teased, caressing the bulge in his trousers.
He groaned. "Don't do that unless you want to be finished before we start."
"Eric, you're talking like a man who's being neglected."
He braced himself over the couch, unzipped his fly, pulled my panties aside, and slid into me, neat as a magic trick. "I am neglected," he murmured in my ear. "Whenever I'm not inside you, I'm neglected."
"That's really lame," I whispered back. I braced a heel on the couch arm and met his thrusts. "And we're
gonna
break this couch."
Fuck the couch.
That thought—cool and uncaring, but hot at the same time—pretty much did me in; I heard something crack in the couch and then I was coming, clutching at Eric while his voice ran through my head, a vivid whisper of longing.
O my own my
love
love
love
…
I hope he "loved" fixing couches, because that was probably next on our agenda.
He groaned and collapsed over me, which elicited a groan of my own. "Kill me," he mumbled. "I'm an old man, and you're trying to kill me."
"Hey, this wasn't
my
idea, pal. And you're still in your prime. Your immortal dead guy prime." I giggled.
"Are you laughing at me, darling?"
"No, Eric," I said gravely, biting my lower lip so I wouldn't do it again.
"It would crush my tender emotions to know you were laughing at me during this vulnerable time."
"I'd never do that, Eric. So what was it like, inventing the telegraph?"
He chased me up the stairs, and I made a mental note to have someone take a look at that couch later in the week.
It was about five A.M., and I was getting ready for bed (finally! what a long, weird day) when there was a brisk rap-rap at my bedroom door.
"Come on in," I called, buttoning the last button on my new
jammies
. Aw, they were so soft, so sweet to the touch…
Jessica opened the door and stuck her head in and then groaned when she saw me. "Jeez, Betsy! I'll buy you frig-gin' decent pajamas, okay? You don't have to wear those pieces of shit."
"What?" I cried. "These are brand-new."
"Yeah? What's Sinclair say about them?"
"What part of 'brand-new' aren't you getting? He hasn't seen them yet."
"He sees those, the wedding's off."
"Oh, shut the hell up." I stepped to the mirror and admired the navy blue flannel and red polka dots. They were too long in the pants and arms (I'd found them in the men's section, where I frequently shopped because I was so fucking tall), but a few washings should take care of that. And they were
warm
. "You didn't come up here to critique my nightwear. At least I hope you didn't. Because, really, how lame would that be?"
"No, I sure didn't. But I could sure spend half the night doing it."
"This from someone who wears football jerseys to bed."
"Totally different thing."
"I think I liked it better when you weren't talking to me."
"Too late now. Listen, I wanted to catch you before you guys went to bed—where
is
Sinclair?"
"He made a beeline for the computer after ole Long in the Tooth and '
Tude
left."
"Huh. He used to practically count the seconds before you went to bed so you guys could do it."
"We already did," I admitted, "after Maggie left."
"Yet another room you defiled. And Maggie would be the vampire he didn't want me to meet?"
I shuddered. "Don't bitch, J. He was right. She's creepy. She's got eyes like a doll's."
"Barbie Doll or American Girl?"
"Blank." I gestured to my face, trying to convey in five words or less how creepy the woman had been. "Shiny."
"Shiny?" I could see Jess was trying not to laugh. She'd never met
Nostro
. In fact, I was the
baddest
vampire she'd ever met, after I'd read the Book of the Dead and gone evil. Which was to say, she'd never met a really bad vampire.
"She almost chomped Marc, and not only did he let her grab him, he didn't remember that she grabbed him. Stay the fuck away, I'm serious."
"Well, if Sinclair's worried about her, that's good enough for me. I've got enough creepy vampires to worry about." She plopped herself into what I always thought of as Marie's Chair. "Listen, are you okay with me going out with Detective Nick?"
"If you're
gonna
date him, you should probably
get
in the habit of referring to him just by his first name."
She waved that away. "Yeah, yeah. Are you?"
"Sure. Yeah. It was just a surprise, that's all. A good surprise," I added hastily. "Sinclair's right, somebody should have snatched you up ages ago."
She smiled thinly. "Yeah, well. Nobody's gotten around to it yet."
"I was just thinking that it had been a while for you… wasn't
dave
the last guy you were with?"