Dead Over Heels

by MaryJanice Davidson

  “Please don’t spoil it,” he murmured into her neck.

  “Saul, where have you been all my life?”

  “Wherever you’ve wanted me to be.” Pause. “Idiot.”

  She laughed. “Ooooh, love the sexy pillow talk. I may melt.”

  “I actually don’t love you; now that I’ve had you I think I hate you.”

  “Oh, you liar.”

  “Yeah,” he sighed, and kissed her again.

  Chapter 16

  Now, don’t go getting a swelled head,” she told him at breakfast. He’d woken her up twice in the night, once to take her from behind, once to lick every inch of her body.

  He peered at her over the paper. “No, not at all.”

  “Just because you’re the most fantastic lover ever doesn’t mean I’ve magically fallen in love with you overnight.”

  “Oh, you love me,” he said casually. “You’re just a little slow on the uptake.”

  “That is just what Darrell said,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Eat your eggs, you’ve still got two black eyes.”

  “My eggs,” he commented, “are runny.”

  “You think I cook for anybody, you ungrateful ass? Eat!”

  “Runny and you put too much milk in them.”

  “Shut up!” she howled, and threw an English muffin at his head. He handily dodged. She tried to calm down. It was difficult, when all she wanted to do was rip his clothes off and fuck him on the kitchen table.

  Saul.

  Saul, of all people! Who’da thunk it?

  “What I am trying to say,” she managed through clenched teeth, “is that we should date.”

  “I was thinking more like getting married.”

  “Date,” she continued doggedly, “and on or around my birthday, if we think it’ll work out, we can get married.”

  “Oh.” He chewed, blank-faced, then said, “I’d rather get married right now.”

  “You ass! Jesus, I love you.” Then, horrified, she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean it!”

  “Yes, you did.” He looked unbearably smug.

  “It just sort of slipped out! Like—like verbal diarrhea.”

  “You,” he said, “should write greeting cards. You’ve got such a way with words.”

  She threw another muffin at him, which he snatched out of the air and devoured in two bites. “Date!” she practically screamed. “We will date! And in two weeks, maybe we’ll get married.”

  There was a polite rap on the door, and he instantly got up.

  “No, stay put and eat. I’ll get it. Maybe Geoff’s back for round two.”

  “Doubt it.”

  She went to the front door, opened it, and saw her Pack leader, Michael Wyndham, standing on the front step.

  “Cain! Congratulations!”

  “Huh? I mean, good morning, Michael.”

  “As soon as I heard the great news I went to work.”

  “Huh?”

  “Jeez, you’re kind of slow on the uptake, aren’t you? I’ve got the paperwork all arranged.” He handed her a sheet on thick vellum.

  A marriage certificate.

  And Michael, of course, was licensed to marry them.

  “Saul!” she screamed, almost crumpling the license in her fist. “You—manipulative—prick!”

  “Wedding day jitters?” Michael asked kindly.

  “Aren’t you going to invite him in?” Saul called from the kitchen.

  She weighed the pleasure of slamming the door in his face against the consequences of slamming the door in his face, then grudgingly stepped aside so he could enter.

  Then she trotted down the hall to the kitchen. “This doesn’t prove anything! I’m not signing that thing today!”

  “Well, I am.” He was scraping the rest of his runny eggs into the garbage disposal. “You can sign it whenever you’re ready.”

  “Which might be a long damn time, Mr. Planned Everything without Telling Me! Ever think of that?”

  “Ticktock, Cain. You’re thirty . . . when?”

  “You know when!” she yowled.

  “So,” Michael said from behind her, “who’s signing this thing? Say, Cain, remember that bet we made when we were just kids, about how we wouldn’t get mated until we—”

  She snatched the thing out of his hand. Saul handed her a pen. She signed it with an angry slash. Thrust it at her (groan) husband. Who also signed it.

  “Okay,” Michael said, looking at them doubtfully and taking the certificate back. “As you know, you’re now legally married, but we’d love to have a formal ceremony for you at the Manor. When you’re, um, not so stressed. Maybe in a week or two?”

  “I’m not stressed. I’m fucking married.”

  “Well, ah, congratulations seem to be in order for the, um, happy couple.”

  “You bastard,” she told Saul.

  Her husband smiled and handed her a glass of raw eggs.

  “You’ll pay,” she warned him. “For the next fifty years, you’ll pay.”

  “Oh, I’m counting on it,” he said, and kissed her for a lovely long time, and at one point Michael cleared his throat and left, but they didn’t notice.

  And now, a sneak preview of

  Undead and Unworthy

  the seventh installment of the

  Betsy the Vampire Queen series

  Chapter 1

  Bored, I crossed the carpet in five steps, climbed up on Sinclair’s desk, and kissed him. My left knee dislodged the phone, which hit the floor with a muffled thump and instantly started making that annoying eee-eee-eee sound. My right skidded on a fax Sinclair had gotten from some bank.

  Surprised, but always up for a nooner (or whatever vampires called sex at 7:30 at night), my husband kissed me back with knee-weakening enthusiasm. Meanwhile, due to the aforementioned knee-skidding, I slammed into him so hard, his chair hit the wall with enough force to put a crack in the wallpaper. More work for the handyman.

  He yanked, and my (cashmere! argh) sweater tore down the middle. He shoved, and my skirt (Ann Taylor) went up. He pulled, and my panties (Target) went who-knew-where. And I was pretty busy tugging and pulling at his suit (try as I might, I could not get the king of the vampires to not wear a suit), so the cloth was flying.

  He did that sweep-the-top-of-the-desk thing you see in movies and plopped me on my back. He reached down and I said, “Not the shoes!” so he left them alone (although I noticed the eye roll and made a mental note to bitch about it later).

  He tugged, pulled, and entered. It hurt a little, because normally I needed more than sixteen seconds of foreplay, but it was also pretty fucking great (literally!).

  I wrapped my legs around his waist so I could admire my sequined leopard-print pumps (don’t even ask me what they cost). Then I grinned up at him, I couldn’t help it, and he smiled back, his dark eyes narrow with lust. It was so awesome to be a newlywed. And I was almost done with my thank-you notes!

  I let my head fall back, enjoying the feel of him, the smell of him, his hands on my waist, his dick filling me up, his mouth on my neck, kissing, licking, then biting.

  Then my dead stepmother said, “This is all your fault, Betsy, and I’m not going anywhere until you fix it.”

  To which I replied (really quite logically), “Aaaaah! Aaaaah! AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH-HHHHHHHH!”

  Sinclair jerked like I’d turned into sunshine and spoke for the first time since I swept into his office. “Elizabeth, what’s wrong? Am I hurting you?”

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!”

  From my vantage point, my dead stepmother was upside down, which somehow made it all the more terrible because, contrary to popular belief, you can’t turn a frown upside down.

  “You can fuss all you want, but you’ve got responsibilities, and don’t think I don’t know it.” She shook her head at me and in death, as in life, her overly coiffed pineapple-blonde hair didn’t move. She was wearing a fuchsia skirt, a low-cut sky blue blou
se, black nylons, and fuchsia pumps. Also, too much makeup. It practically hurt to look at her. “So you better get to work.”

  “Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!”

  Sinclair pulled out and started frantically feeling me. “Where are you hurt?”

  “The Ant! The Ant!”

  “You—what?”

  Before I could elaborate (and where to begin?), I heard thundering footsteps and then Marc slammed into the closed office door. I heard him back off and grab for the doorknob, and then he was standing in the doorway. “Betsy, are you—oh my God!” He went red so fast I was afraid he was going to have a stroke. “I’m sorry, jeez, I thought that was a bad ‘aaaaahhhh,’ not a sex ‘aaaaahhh.’”

  More footsteps, and then my best friend, Jessica, was saying, “What’s wrong? Is she okay?” She was so skinny and short, I couldn’t see her behind Marc.

  “The Ant is here!” I yowled as Sinclair assembled the rags of his suit, picked me up off the desk, and shoved me behind him. I don’t know why he bothered; Marc was gay and a doctor, and so couldn’t care less if I was mostly naked. And Jessica had seen me naked about a million times. “Here, right now!”

  “Your stepmother’s in this room?” I still couldn’t see her, but Jessica’s tone managed to convey the sheer horror I felt at the prospect of being haunted by the Ant.

  “Where else would I be?” the Ant, the late Antonia Taylor, said reasonably. She was tapping her Paylessclad foot and nibbling her lower lip. “What I’d like to know is, where’s your father?”

  “One problem at a time,” I begged.

  Chapter 2

  After Marc decided a Valium drip probably wouldn’t work on a vampire, he brought me a stiff drink instead. Which was sweet, but I was so rattled I drank it off in one gulp and it could have been paint thinner for all I knew.

  “Is she still here?” he whispered.

  “Of course I’m still here,” my dead stepmother snapped. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I’m the only one who can hear you,” I shrilled, “so just shut up!”

  “Bring her another drink,” Sinclair muttered. We were still in his office, but Jessica had kindly brought robes to cover our shredded clothes. “Bring her three.”

  “I don’t need booze, I need to get rid of you-know-what.”

  “Very funny,” the Ant grumped.

  She and my father had been killed in a gruesome, stupid car accident a couple of months ago. Where she had been since her death, and why she had shown up now, I didn’t know. And I didn’t want to know. But I was going to have to find out, because the ghosts never, ever went away until I solved their little problems for them.

  And where was my dead dad, anyway? I sighed. Non-confrontational in life, as well as in death.

  “What do you want?”

  “I told you. To fix this.”

  “Fix what?”

  “You know.”

  “This is so weird,” Marc murmured to Jessica, forgetting, as usual, about superior vamp hearing. “She’s having a conversation with the chair.”

  “She is not, quiet so I can hear.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “I really, really don’t. Please tell me.”

  “Stop playing games.”

  “I’m not!” I almost screamed. Then I felt Sinclair’s soothing hands on my shoulders and sagged into him. Like our honeymoon hadn’t been stressful enough, what with all the dead kids and Marc and Jessica crashing it and all. This was a hundred times worse.

  “If you could just—” I began, when the office door crashed open, nearly smashing into Marc, who yelped and jumped aside.

  Garrett, the Fiend formerly known as George, stood in the doorway, panting. Since he was seventy-some years old and didn’t need to breathe, I knew at once something was seriously fucked.

  “They’re awake,” he gasped. “And they want to kill you.”

  “Who?” Sinclair, Jessica, Marc, and I asked in unison.

  “The other Fiends. I’ve been feeding them my blood and they’re pissed. They—they sort of ‘woke up’ and now they want to kill you.”

  “It’s this lifestyle you lead,” the Ant said smugly. “These things are bound to happen.”

  “Oh, shut the fuck up!” I barked. I actually had to clutch my head; which problem to tackle first?

  “You’d better sit down and tell us everything,” Sinclair said, reminding me he was the vampire king. Bam. Decision made. We’d deal with what Garrett had done first.

  So take that, dead stepmother.