Undead and Unsure (12 page)

CHAPTER

TWENTY

I had tasked myself with many errands, most of which I
forgot when I turned and beheld my queen.

“Ohhhh boy,” was how she greeted her king and liege lord. “I don’t even have the words for how scary you look.”

“My trousers,” I replied with the dignity I had used as shield and weapon ever since my sister’s murder, “are at the dry cleaner’s.”

“Bullshit!” the queen cried gleefully. “You just like letting your knees swing in the breeze. Also, Bermudas? Not your best look.”

She was right on both counts, blast it.

“Now, granted, there are lots of ways you could look worse in navy shorts,” she conceded, circling me as a tailor would admire her alterations. Ah . . . tailor. I needed to book time at Heimie’s Haberdashery, a fine local establishment run by those who knew the most important aspect of a suit was the fit. I had not been looked after so well since the ’50s. Though I try not to dwell on it, I was forced to flee my last haberdasher when he expanded his business and hired tailors whose strengths were . . . diverse.

To my dismay, I discovered there were such things as
rodeo tailors
and all that entailed: Pearl snaps. Arrowhead pockets.
Rhinestones
.

Ah, St. Louis IX, patron saint of French haberdashers, if only your benign influence had spread to the Americas.

Elizabeth, who was still prowling around me, stiffened. “Rodeo tailors? Are you seriously thinking about rodeo tailors? Because . . . wow. I’ve got so many questions if you are. Big number one, what’s a rodeo tailor?”

I chuckled and snatched her to me. Her blue-green eyes narrowed in mock annoyance (my Elizabeth functioned in the grip of either of her primary emotions: feigned annoyance and actual annoyance). It was a dreary day, the sun hidden behind scudding clouds slick with rain. If the sun could effect an escape and shine, the stiff breeze from the northeast would keep the air chilled. It was a day made for rereading Dostoyevsky’s
The
Idiot
while sipping Bowmore in front of the de rigueur crackling fire. A miserable day.

A wonderful day. As were all the days since my queen prevailed upon the devil to give me the sun, and did not see such a thing as extraordinary. All things were possible: Picnics. Golf. Bermuda shorts.

“I can’t lie,” she said, rubbing her nose against mine. “Your hairy knees are pretty cute.”

“As are yours, my love.”

“No chance! I shaved my legs the night before I got creamed by that Aztec. I never have to shave them again. Hairy legs on women aren’t ever going to be in vogue in this country, right? Because that would heartily suck. Where are we going?”

“Somewhere I can sweep you off your typically well-shod feet.” Though technically I already had; as I pressed her against me and walked, her feet swung and kicked in the air. She had found me returning from my newly established routine, and so Summit Lookout Park was across the street.

“Ahhhh, nuts.” Elizabeth groaned across my neck as we swiftly crossed. “Sinclair, come
on
. Enough with the al fresco banging. Plus, it’s gonna dump buckets on us any minute.”

“Your throaty murmurings are, as always, an exciting prelude to our lovemaking.”

“Sinclaaaaaair,” my queen cried. A less-besotted gentleman might have classified it as a whine. “C’mon, the park
again
?”

“The mere sight of the New York Life Eagle inflames me. I must have you.” We were across the street by now, entering the small, lovely park, so I scooped my bride into my arms. You would think, as she was now more comfortable, she would have less to say.

“It’s friggin’ freezing out here and the eagle statue creeps me out.”

But no. “There is no one around,” I assured her as we passed the lookout marker.

“Because it’s friggin’
freezing
out here and, if you don’t remember me mentioning this twenty seconds ago, it’s gonna spit freezing rain on us any minute.”

“If my lust was not already inflamed by cradling your supple limbs, your siren’s voice would have done so.”

“Look, I get it, okay?” she was saying and saying and saying while I looked for a secluded spot. “You haven’t been able to bang outside for a hundred years or whatever—”

Was it possible she did not know how old I was?

“—and now you can, so you’re getting back to your farm-boy roots and stuff, but you’ll still be able to do this when it’s, say, July. July? Doesn’t that sound nice? Fireworks and picnics and lemonade? And
then
sex? Because I thinkmmmmmmm.”

I silenced my love in a way that was efficient yet pleasurable. For all her aired grievances, her lips were warm and yielding. When I set her down at the base of some trees that, despite the season, offered some cover, she clung to my neck all the way down.

“Far be it from me to argue with your penis,” she grumbled as she unbuttoned her red and black checked coat. I slid my hands beneath her emerald cashmere sweater (a sensible birthday gift from Tina) and she gasped as I found her lovely deep breasts.

Have I mentioned you have the figure of a Victorian courtesan? Catherine Walters would envy you.

Could you maybe not think other women’s names while we’re doing it? Hmm?

I laughed in her mouth and she playfully nipped my lower lip. Her long pale fingers were busy at my waist, my belt, my zipper. Now it was my turn to suck in breath (odd how habits born of necessity are the last to leave us) as she found me, grasped me. Wondrous insanity: in my Elizabeth’s embrace I was an inexperienced teenage boy, greedy for love and made clumsy by that greed.

Well . . . since we’re resigned . . . could you please fuck me hard and a lot? Right now?

I laughed and tweaked a pert nipple, then followed her curves with my hands until I was stroking her sweet center.

“I think something is happening,” I murmured against her lips.

“Yeah, to me, too.” She was wriggling beneath me, inviting access even as she kept most of herself modestly covered. Impressive! “Can you move now? A lot? And really hard and f—”

Something beyond the sun,
I thought, lost in her body’s sweet welcome.
Something beyond the light.

Mmmm . . . the love talk is terrific, but to paraphrase Julia Roberts’s prostitute (a prostitute who only banged one guy), “I’m a sure thing.” So: move now. A lot.

Chuckling, I obliged, to our mutual satisfaction.

*   *   *

“My king?”

I looked around. We were in the kitchen. An untouched smoothie was at my right. I had been lost in my thoughts; I had been indulging in memories while my beloved had been taken from me.

Unacceptable.

“I

What is happening to me?

apologize.”

“You destroyed the dining room and then laid out part of a plan and then mysteriously disappeared, presumably to sleep the sleep of the deeply pissed. You were saying you could help us during the day,” Dr. Spangler prompted. “Because you can bear sunlight now.”

Something beyond the sun. Something beyond the light.
“Yes,” I allowed. “That is so.”

“Just say what you need, chief,” Detective Berry said. It was at times difficult to remember he was an authority figure, an investigator with years of study and training to call upon. Detective Berry had the build and coloring of a fresh-faced farmer’s boy (having been one myself, I recognized the look), perhaps even the youngest boy. But not for the first time, I was grateful we had someone with such a background in our home. “We’ll see if we can’t get it done.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

He rolled his eyes at Jessica at my formality, which I affected not to notice as Dr. Spangler edged the smoothie closer. “Tina and I went shopping late last night and we got lots of fresh fruit. It’s your favorite,” he said, wide-eyed and hopeful. “Double raspberry.”

I looked at the drink and felt nothing. I picked it up and sipped. Nothing. “My thanks, Doctor. I doubt I have ever been prescribed a smoothie before.”

“Yeah, well. First time for et cetera.” He waved a hand and sat down in the seat across from me. “I was wondering, with Betsy gone, how long are you gonna—uh—” He looked at my mouth. In particular, my teeth. “Is that gonna be a problem?”

“That is not—” I began coldly, but stopped myself. Because these people were not roommates and they were not coworkers. And in all fairness, it
was
their concern. “That is not anything you need worry about. I would never harm any of you, nor by inaction allow harm.”

“Oh, jeez!” Jessica shifted in her seat almost violently. I watched her with attentive wariness; at no time was a pregnant woman to be underestimated. My mother had been pregnant with twins; my father, years later, still shuddered when recalling some of the famed irritability. Elizabeth referred to them as rage-gasms. “That! Nobody’s worried you’re gonna pull a Count Chocula on one of us. Mmm, Count Chocula. But you and Betsy mostly feed on each other, right? And we don’t know when we’re gonna get her back. Are
you
gonna be okay, is what we’re wondering.”

I looked at these people, my people. Jessica, great in her body, and Marc, great in his mind. Nick-No-More (I should use his true name, rather than let Elizabeth’s ramblings sink in and take root in my brain), who stood for the law in our home, and Tina, who did not. Tina was my link to my old family and the new; she was the bridge. And Elizabeth . . .

My Elizabeth had brought me my new family; I had not had
any
family for decades and, foolishly, assumed I never would again. I can only see my parents and my dear sister in my memory’s eye; I see my new family every day. I guarded the dead with my mind; I would guard the living with everything else. Woe to those who pondered harm to any one of them.

Or, as my delightful queen would declare: “Which one of you asshats is looking to get punched in the face?”

Succinct woman, my queen. Always to the point. Though I still had no idea what an asshat was.

“It is kind of you to worry,” I told the room at large while looking at Jessica. “But perhaps you should stay off your feet for a while. The twins must be making you tired.”

“Twins?” Not-Nick asked, easing into the chair beside his sweetheart.

“Twins?” Dr. Spangler repeated, looking the mother-to-be over with a practitioner’s eye.

“Twins?” Jessica echoed. She appeared to think about it, absently rubbed her great stomach, then nodded. “Sure. Twins.”

“I assumed,” I said vaguely. Why had I said such a thing? I had been thinking—ah, yes, my mother’s pregnancy. Similar symptoms and of course the lady herself was rather sizeable, all the more startling as Jessica was normally quite slender. Why think of such things now? Doubtless a way for my mind to distract itself from the horrid chasm created by the queen’s disappearance.

Disappearance? That made it seem subtle. Elizabeth had been taken, snatched,
ripped
from me.

“Sure, twins,” Not-Nick said, nodding. “That makes sense.”

“Yes indeed,” Tina agreed. “Only . . .” Her pale brow furrowed. “Dr. Taylor seemed a bit perturbed.”

“Mmm. Yes.” I had a dim memory. My mother-in-law had concerns about Jessica’s pregnancy; I approved and attributed it to her maternal care for Jessica. Jessica, a fine woman and a loyal friend to my queen, had received little maternal care in her own childhood. From what Elizabeth had confided, it was a pity Jessica’s parents were not still walking the world. It would have been deeply satisfying to strangle them both and bury the bodies in a thriving piggery.

“Right, so it’s twins,” Jessica was saying. “Due next month.”

“I thought you were due last month,” Dr. Spangler commented.

Tina looked up. “My understanding is that you will not deliver before summer.”

“Right.” The mother-to-be shrugged. “So. It’s covered.”

“Yes.” As all was well, gestationally speaking, I was able to focus on the pressing concern. “We need to find Laura Goodman.”
And I need to strangle her and bury her in a—no. Not yet.

“Yeah, that’d be nice, but we know she’s moved.” Dr. Spangler glanced around the table and topped off Jessica’s smoothie. “And she sure didn’t ask any of us to help lug her couch and books and Sunday school medals and Antichrist memorabilia.”

Jessica picked up her glass and sipped. Now sporting a charming mustache, she offered, “If she
had
asked, I would have been glad to pay for movers. I’ve moved without them and it sucks.” Seeing my surprise, she elaborated: “When Betsy and I moved to the duplex. She insisted we split everything to do with the duplex; she didn’t want me to pay for everything. It was the only way she’d agree to be roommates. And when we drew up the moving budget, she asked me to put the van money toward the next sample sale. It sucked,” she summed up, “and the sample sale wasn’t too great, either. But I sure as shit gained an appreciation for what movers have to do. It’s soooo hard to move a dresser up the stairs! It’s heavy if you don’t take out the drawers, and awkward if you do, plus you’ve got to lug in the drawers one by one.”

Detective Berry cleared his throat. “I could find out Laura’s new address. But . . .”

“Oh, jeez,” Dr. Spangler said, then he quickly glanced at me, doubtless assuming
jeez
was less dreadful than
Jesus
to my unholy ears. Which was accurate. “Sorry. But Dick, I don’t think you should do something that’d get you in trouble.”

“I don’t think I’d get in trouble,” he began, but I held up a hand.

“No need to take the chance, though you are kind to offer. I know where she lives.”

“No shit?”

“How d’you know that?” Jessica asked. “Who told you?” As one, they all looked at Tina, who gave them her best inscrutable smile and said nothing. She knew, but left the satisfaction of the disclosure to me. Tina was always courteous.

“Man, Betsy’s right,” Dr. Spangler said. “You’ve got spies everywhere. That’s part of the head vampire thing, I think. And listen. I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .”

“Yes?” Reticence was unlike the man.