Undead and Unwary

by MaryJanice Davidson

  On my father.

  “Don’t even,” I warned. “I will rip your lips off your face. Then throw them on the ground and stomp on them.” What ground? Hell was still a big pile of nothing. I was undaunted; for the purpose of lip stomping, I’d find a way to make Hell have a ground again. Have an up and a down and a right and a left, too, if it came to that. “Look, you think I don’t know this sucks? I’m well aware this sucks and I’m just as horrified as you are to find out we’re still in each other’s lives.”

  “That,” she replied grimly, “is impossible.”

  “Ha! You remember how appalled you and Dad were to find out I’d come back from the dead? As a vampire, no less?”

  “Yes,” was the short, stiff reply. “Nightmare.”

  “For me, too! You think that was any kind of fun for me? You think that was my plan? Because that was not my plan, Antonia; in no way, shape, or form was any of that my plan.”

  She opened her mouth to retort, but I was off and running.

  “Being run over by a Pontiac Aztec on my thirtieth birthday after I’d just been fired was not my plan. Hearing my skull shatter—it sounded like ice cracking, by the way—was not my plan. Coming back as a vampire was not my plan. Coming back as the foretold queen of the bloodsuckers . . . wait for it . . . not my plan! And that’s just the stuff that happened that first week! That insane amount of insanity was all before I found out about the Antichrist being a blood relative and Satan looking like Lena Olin and—and—and me messing up the timeline and time travel and the cold, frozen netherworld of the future and Ancient Me and helping run Hell!”

  “Yes, yes, you have problems. We know. We all know, because you never shut up about how put-upon you are with the money and the happy marriage and the minions.”

  “I don’t have minions,” I said, sulking a little. “I have helpers. Like . . . like Boy Scouts. Boy Scouts on a liquid diet possibly for eternity. And what the fuck would you even know about my marriage?”

  “Do you think this is what I wanted?” she snapped back, gesturing at all the nothing while ignoring my very sensible question. “I’m well aware of what a skull sounds like when it shatters, or did you forget I died almost exactly the same way?”

  Um. I kind of did. Forget, that is. The garbage truck had pancaked them. Yeah, them. Because there were two people in that car and one of them was definitely my dad. It never occurred to me to wonder how much of the fatal, devastating accident my stepmother remembered. It was horrifying even to think about, never mind quiz her about. Even more horrifying: of almost all the people I knew, the Ant was someone who could empathize with some of the less-than-great aspects of my life after death.

  The Ant! Why does the universe hate me and want me to be sad? Because could empathize wasn’t the same as would empathize. In fairness (groan), I had zero interest in empathizing with her, either.

  And, oh good God, she was still bitching. “Do you think it was my plan to be possessed by the devil, to have her run my body for a year?”

  “I thought you were more upset about how no one noticed you were possessed,” I admitted. It wasn’t funny, except to me. It was actually pretty vindicating: she was so awful, no one noticed she’d been possessed by the evilest thing in creation.

  The smirk fell off my face as I realized that was something else we had in common. I’d read the Book of the Dead in a misguided attempt to learn more about vampires and their nature and what I could expect in the future.10 I’d turned evil for a bit and raped Sinclair, who had been delighted for every second of it.11 That was an awkward conversation, later.

  More empathy, ugh. And at the worst possible time. I couldn’t afford to feel anything for the Ant except my usual exhausted contempt. Anything else only made complicated matters even more difficult.

  “And did you think—” Oh, good, the shrill bitching was helping me back off from the momentary empathy. “Did you think it was my plan to have another baby in my thirties?”

  “Forties,” I mumbled.

  “And die in my late thirties?”

  “Forties.”

  “And find out that my daughter—the one I’d been forced to carry for nine months and squeeze out without so much as a Tylenol, never mind an epidural—was the Antichrist?”

  “Well, I had to find out she was my sister, and also the Antichrist.” Speaking of, where the hell in Hell was she? Where was anyone besides This Woman? “So we can both relate, so what? This isn’t further proof we should go get coffee together or something, right?”

  Judging by the expression on her face, the Ant found that concept as repulsive as I did. Whew! “And before you ask,” she continued, “my daughter had to tend to something back on earth.” Wow. I’ve lived long enough to have “back on earth” be a true, literal thing, something I barely blinked at. “She has many responsibilities and demands on her time.”

  “So do I!” I cried. “So many. Speaking of, Jessica’s babies—”

  Nostril flare at the name. I stomped on the urge to take off her shoes (which weren’t really there) and beat her to death with them (which was impossible) and then set the shoes on fire (tricky, since the shoes and the fire didn’t exist). Ultimately futile, sure, but sooo satisfying. I think.

  “Keep your bigotry out of this,” I warned, which was like telling Cinnabon to keep their sugar out of anything.

  “I am not a racist!” she cried, contradicting many, many of her actions, conversations, and boldly stated philosophies. “We’re very supportive of all their causes. For years we donated to the—ah—”

  “Can’t remember the name of the charity you use for a tax break? That’s not surprising. Not even a little tiny bit.”

  “You’re as bad as I am—”

  “You take that back!”

  “—with your one black friend and—”

  “Wait. What?”

  A snort, followed by an eye roll. “Sorrrry. African American friend.”

  “No, that’s not what I take objection to.” And never would. I’d made that mistake once, and as a consequence Jessica almost fed me my own face. My parents and grandparents and greats and great-greats and great-great-greats were not African! We were from Jamaica! This PC shit is going too far! Don’t assume you know where my family’s from because I’ve got more melanin in my skin cells than you do, you silly bitch!

  All right, all right! Say it, don’t spray it. Sorry.

  The Ant cut through my stressful flashback (it was so real! I could remember the feel of her fingers as she seized my shirt and twisted, giving it the fabric equivalent of a purple nurple). “Oh, you know what I’m talking about. You’ve got your one African American pal to cement your street cred but you don’t hang out with any other—”

  “Stop. Talking.” I took an unnecessary breath (it didn’t calm me but the dizziness helped me focus). “You’re awful. And nobody says ‘street cred’ anymore.”

  “Sorry. I’m not up on current slang.”

  “And that’s what you’re apologizing for, which sums you up perfectly. But shut up already, I’ve got bigger problems than you and isn’t that a crying goddamned shame. Jessica’s babies turned into toddlers and then turned back. Except everybody else thought they left the house, then came back. I’ve got no idea what to do about that.”

  She beckoned my petty concerns forward in a “hurry up, out with it” gesture.

  “And . . . that’s it.” I thought about it. Yep, that was the sitch in a nasty little nutshell. “There’s no more to tell. Isn’t that enough? Any ideas?”

  “Several.”

  “About Hellman’s and Miracle Whip?”

  “Who?”

  “The babies.”

  “Yes, kick them out of your lives. All of them.”

  I was surprised I was surprised. I’ve never been what you would call a fast learner. Or even a medium-speed lear
ner. “Okay, now can I have a suggestion that doesn’t reek of sociopathy?”

  Another shrug, one that barely concealed her impatience and boredom. “Don’t do anything. They’ll adjust, the way they’ve had to since you didn’t have the common decency to stay dead.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “that was ill-mannered of me.” Ill-mannered? Sinclair was rubbing off on me, and not in a sexytimes way.

  “They’re fine. You’re fine. You know what the problem is. Just explain it to their parents.”

  “Right, because it’s just that easy.” Wait, was it? Naw. That was not how life worked. How my life worked. “And where is everybody? Not that I want a crowd, but it’s so odd to be standing around in nothing having awful conversations with you.” I gestured to the nil of perdition. “There should be billions milling around.”

  “They’re here. You’ll see them when you wish to see them. That’s all.”

  I gritted my teeth at how she said “that’s all” like it was the entire explanation and there was no need for further discussion. That’s all. Cripes.

  My stepmother rubbed her temples and looked like the Before picture in a Pepto-Bismol ad. “Think of it like a chest of drawers. You know exactly where your socks are even though you can’t see the socks. And before you squawk about how it can’t be that simple, you’re wrong. Because I have to break it down so far in order for you to get it, it is that simple.”

  I had to give it to her; when she explained Hell that way, it was a concept I could grasp. “Then why are you here? I wasn’t thinking about you; I didn’t accidentally summon you.” In fact, it was probably time to get back to the Game. White bear, white bear. Except I was thinking DadDadDadDadDad. The whole time she’d been reading me the race riot act: DadDadDadDadDad.

  She looked away. “Where else would I be?”

  “Uh . . .” Oh God, no. Please. No more empathy for the Ant. It went against everything I believed in. And everything she believed in. “Okay.”

  “I was always going to end up here.”

  “You were?” The way she said it made me a little sad. Like she was stuck and there was nothing to be done. Which exactly described my father’s second marriage. (Yeah, I know, very meow. I literally cannot help myself.)

  But was that even correct? She had been the devil’s right hand. Satan had been fond of the Ant as undivine vessel for the Antichrist, and they both cared about Laura, which made the Ant one of the few souls (?) Satan could absolutely count on to keep the Antichrist’s interests front and center. Satan was gone or dead or whatever, off to Heaven or another Hell or a dimension we didn’t know about or just total nothingness, but that still put Laura (and me to a much lesser extent) in charge. So was the Ant really stuck here? Was she staying by choice? Did she just hang around in all the nothing, waiting patiently for Laura or me to turn up?

  Wow, any more parallels to her marriage to my father and I wasn’t going to be able to shake the feeling that Everything Happens for a Reason. Also, ugh.

  “Of course I ended up in Hell,” she said with a sigh, in response to my polite “You were?” “I led a married man into adultery.” At my uncomprehending look, she elaborated. “It’s a sin.” Then she snorted, “Presbyterians.”

  First off, I knew it was a sin, I just didn’t think many people these days truly thought they would go to Hell for treating their marriage vows as marriage suggestions. Second, my religion was none of her business. Third, I had no idea she was religious. Or moral. “It, um.” What the hell to say to that? Any of that? “You know the saying. I mean, it wasn’t all you.” This would kill me. I would literally nice myself to death, and for the Ant, of all people. Death was coming. “It takes two to, uh, adult. Be adulterous, or adulterate. Whatever. You weren’t in it by yourself. In fact, you weren’t even married, he was. So he was the actual adulterator. Right?”

  A sullen shrug, but the way she peeked at me out of the corner of her eye while refusing to look straight at me was almost cute. “We made mistakes,” she finally allowed.

  I accepted the olive branch (which was more like an olive twig, or maybe the pit) and went back to what I really wanted to know. High time, even if I didn’t have a hidden agenda. Because being stuck in Hades talking about my father’s marriage with my stepmother . . . if I’d had any doubt we were in Hell, that would have cleared it right up.

  And again, because this was starting to bug me, I was here . . . without Laura! Unfortunately I didn’t have a leg to stand on in the “how come you punked out on that thing we agreed to do together?” department, due to my avoidance shenanigans. Still, it was annoying. Laura was supposed to be the better (wo)man, dammit. Never in my life, not once, had I been the better (wo)man. Why would anyone expect me to start now? Frankly, their unreasonable expectations were kind of a burden.

  Because it’s your responsibility? You’re not just a queen, you’re the older sister.

  I shoved those thoughts away so I could get back to what I needed to discuss. “Yeah, speaking of adulterating and all that came with it . . .” I made a show of looking around. “Where’s my father?”

  A silence that could, at best, be referred to as uncomfortably awkward was my only answer. It took me several seconds to realize she wasn’t going to say anything. That this might not be a conversation, but a monologue. An uncomfortably awkward monologue.

  I cleared my throat and tried again. “Did you understand the question? About Dad?”

  “I’ve got no time for this. Neither do you.”

  And she turned her back on me.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  Okay, this. This, um. This was not how I’d expected the discussion to go. I’d expected her to tell me right off where she thought Dad was or that she had no idea and her husband’s whereabouts were none of my business. Not avoidance, which—I had to give the Ant credit—wasn’t ever her style. In fact, she went out of her way to avoid avoidance, always delighting in being blunt and confrontational, whereas in any confrontation you’d find my dad in the other room, and sometimes the other state. She was the yin to his yang, the Demi Moore to his Ashton Kutcher. Wait. Never mind.

  The “conversation” we were having was like prepping to tangle with an arsonist, only to realize you were tangling with a burglar instead. You had to think up entirely new rules to deal. You had to understand that what you thought would get burned would instead get stolen. I’m giving way too much thought to this metaphor, possibly because the conversation was freaking me out.

  “Neither do I? Neither do I?” Repetition worked pretty well with the Ant; she was like a parrot that way. “Is that what you think? Not your call.” I made a determined effort to ignore how my stomach plunged and kept at her. “And you’re not the one who gets to tell me what I do and don’t have time for. In case you missed a recent shift in power dynamics, I outrank you. Which means you’re going to make time.”

  She snorted. “That’s convenient. You spend weeks wiggling on the hook like a whiny worm—”

  “Gross. Don’t make fishing metaphors if you don’t know dick about fishing. And could you turn around? It’s so unsettling to argue with your shoulders.”

  “—and telling everyone who would listen that you’re not suited for this job, right up until you want to use the perks to pull rank.”

  Damn. “Good for you,” I said with grudging, painful approval. “You’re still going to have to make time.”

  “Why would you think I know?”

  I nearly fell down, for a couple of reasons. In her capacity as the Executive Assistant from Hell, the Ant had answered questions I’d had on other trips here I hadn’t been able to get out of. But even putting that aside, the Ant, in life, had always known my dad’s whereabouts pretty much all the time. She was always aware of the karmic retribution that is when you marry your mistress, you create a job opening. (My mom had pointed that out to her with gleeful
fury.) I couldn’t imagine she would be much different in death. So far no one I’d met was different in death. The fact that she even asked me that question showed the size of the wall she’d just slammed between us.

  “You must know,” I replied, shocked. “You’re the expert on Hell since Satan quit/got her ass killed. And even if you weren’t, you died with him. And—and if you ‘woke up’ here or whatever by yourself, you could have found out. You and Satan were practically besties. She could have done the Hell equivalent of making one phone call and finding out for you.”

  “She did say I was her favorite unholy vessel,” the Ant mused. Even while stonewalling me, she managed a secondhand compliment.

  I could learn from this woman.

  Naturally I banished that thought the instant, the second, it surfaced in my mind like a fart bubble in a bathtub.

  “Billions of souls,” the Ant was saying, because it might have started as a monologue but had eventually turned into a conversation. “Needle in a haystack. And it’s none of your business, anyway.”

  This was the—what? The sixth or seventh time this week I was so staggered it took me a minute to remember how to talk. Some people found shock upon shock to be exciting, a ticket to an adrenaline high. I . . . did not. I liked my adrenaline highs to come from sample sales and banging the vampire king. And maybe smoothies.

  “None of my business? Oh God, anything but that!” I cried, horror-struck. “You mean there’s actually something to this? No! No, you’re doing it wrong, it’s all wrong, how can you not know how this goes after all these years?”

  She twitched a little, alarmed. “I don’t—”

  “This is how it goes! This is how it’s always supposed to go! You’re supposed to mock my black friend’s sleep-deprivation-fueled conspiracy theories and say something faux-supportive yet racist, like how it’s not her fault but the more babies she has, the more welfare checks she’ll get or something just as terrible and then I’ll lose my temper and you’ll remind me what a burden I was on your husband.”