"Oh, did I not mention it?" He looked so innocent; butter wouldn’t melt on his fangs. "We’re leaving the Marquette; it’s no longer adequate for our needs. And after some discussion of the problem earlier this evening, Jessica has kindly agreed to be our landlord."
"You’re moving in?" I was going to faint. I was going to throw something. I was going to get new sheets. "You … I … you …"
Jessica spread her hands and shrugged. I shot her a murderous glare. All that "she’s in love with him and she doesn’t know it" talk I’d overheard! And she’d been planning this.
I never should have slept with him again. Jessica wouldn’t have jumped to dumbass conclusions if she hadn’t seen us in bed together. Oh, I knew it! I knew I’d be sorry for that moment of weakness, but even I couldn’t have foreseen this. Nothing good comes of having sex with Eric Sinclair!
I put a hand up, rubbed my forehead. "I really need that drink now."
"We’re in a bar," Jon pointed out.
"Forget it, you little weirdos," I said rudely, including Ani in my diatribe. "A) I’m not partying in dead Monique’s tacky club, and B) you guys aren’t even drinking age. So you’re not coming."
"Oh. Almost forgot." Jessica fished in her pocket, then stretched something shiny toward Eric and Tina. "Here’s your house key."
I snatched it from her and ate it. I gagged, but it went down.
"Oh, very mature," Sinclair sniffed, but I could sense the smirk lurking.
"Don’t talk to me." I paused, to see if the key was going to come back up. It was staying put, for now. "And you …" I grabbed Jessica’s ear and she yelped. "Come on. I’m driving my new Porche somewhere and you’re gonna explain yourself." After I threw up the key.
"It just makes fiscal sense … if you look at the numbers I’m sure you’ll—let go!"
"He can sleep in my room," Marc offered.
"I suppose I should say something negative about vampires living in sin," Father Markus said, "but that seems to be the least of your problems."
"Actually, I’ve already picked out the room next to Elizabeth’s—do not attempt to grab my ear," he added quickly as I twitched in his direction. "Unless you wish to be put across my knee."
"Oh, is that what you guys are up to when the sun goes down?" Ani teased, as Jon reddened and looked away.
I got out of there, dragging Jessica and Marc, before my head exploded.
Epilogue
SO now I’m living with stupid Sinclair and stupid Tina in a gigantic mansion that I can’t afford. And I’m undead and unemployed. Again.
Okay, well, Tina’s not so stupid. In fact, I kind of like her when she’s not startling me with her core of utter ruthlessness. Plus, she makes a mean strawberry smoothie. Even Sinclair drinks them! I guess he really loves strawberries. I gotta change my shampoo.
Strange vampires keep dropping by to show tribute. Apparently Monique’s little coup failure has been making the gossip channels, because dead people are falling all over themselves to stop by and say howdy. For some reason, they bring blood oranges. Sinclair says it’s tradition. I say it’s cracked. The fridge is full of the damned things.
I thought Marc and Jessica were nuts to open their—our—home to more vampires, but Marc earnestly explained that he doesn’t think of Tina and Eric as undead. I bet he’d change his mind if either one of them ever got hungry enough.
As for Jessica, she’s made up her mind that as long as Sinclair and I are meant to be, we might as well start getting used to each other. And it’d be rude to leave Tina out, since she and Eric are practically brother and sister. Thus, we are now roommates. I searched her room, but could find no evidence of drug use.
It’s unbelievably nerve-wracking to come downstairs and find Sinclair already in the tea room, reading the Wall Street Journal and getting a smirk ready.
Not to mention, I’ve been fighting the almost constant temptation to sneak into his room wearing nothing but a smirk of my own. But I realized my lesson in Monique’s club: nothing good can come of having sex with Eric Sinclair. And as for the gentleman in question, he’s been … well, a perfect gentleman. Dammit.
He and Tina brought the Book of the Dead to the house, where we keep it in the library on its own little mahogany book stand. Jessica tried to read it and got a three day migraine for her pains. She also jumped at small noises and wouldn’t eat for most of those three days. Now she stays the hell away from the library.
I’ll get to the book myself someday, but for now I’m trying lighter fare. Let Tina and Sinclair manage the thing, if they could.
When I rose a few nights ago, there was a copy of Pat Conroy’s biography, My Losing Season, on my chest. It took me a week to read it and the best part was, there was no mention of food anywhere. So I put it on the shelf with my other books. Guess a door I thought was closed had swung open again … I was sure glad.
I tried to thank Sinclair (I knew Jess hadn’t done it; she’d have made sure she got the credit … but I bet she gave him the idea), but he gave me a look like he didn’t know what I was talking about, so I dropped it.
Jon left town. He said he wanted to get back to the suburbs to see his family, but I think, and Jessica concurs, he couldn’t stand the thought of Sinclair living with me. Which made two of us, frankly. He promised to come back at the end of the summer, and I actually find myself missing the little weirdo.
Ani hangs around most evenings. I think she and Tina have something going, but they’re discreet. Still, they’re both doing a lot of wandering around the mansion, humming. And the goofy smiles are annoying.
Sinclair was right: Monique’s stuff came to me. It was true. She really did have several properties all over the world. And two cars!
What the hell I was going to do with a club in Minneapolis, a spa in Switzerland, a private school in England, and a restaurant in France remains beyond me. I don’t know a damn thing about managing multiple businesses. I guess I could go get a job at one of them. Maybe I’d try to run Scratch …
Detective Nick Berry’s peripheral involvement in the whole nasty business was that rarest of things. A true coincidence. The cabbie I’d saved had just happened to give his report to Nick. Nick had just happened to see my car a few days later and pulled me over. I was glad. I’d messed up his life once before; I would have hated to find it a ruin again.
Mr. Mason disappeared. I didn’t even know about it until I saw the blurb in the paper. He had no family, and his own boss was the one who finally reported him missing; how’s that for sad?
Gone without a trace, until they found a few pieces of him in his apartment a month later. Inside a suitcase, which he’d apparently been in the middle of packing when … when whatever happened, happened. I asked Sinclair about it, and he just turned the page of the Journal and didn’t answer me. So I didn’t bring it up again. Felt a little sorry for Mr. Mason, though. After all, he did give me a job at Macy’s.
Went to see the Ant, with a Calvin Klein onesie for my future half-sibling. Sort of a "can’t we pretend we don’t hate each other?" ice breaker. She "accidentally" spilled red wine on it.
I’m worried about the gardener. Nobody else talks about him, and when I describe him I get a lot of funny looks. Jessica says she did hire someone to take care of the lawn and flowerbeds, but it was a young woman in her twenties. This guy’s old, really old.
I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who can see him.
I’m scared to go talk to him, but one of these days I plan to get it over with. Whatever his deal is, hopefully I can help, and he’ll vamoose like Marie did. I miss her, but creepy old guy ghosts staring up at my bedroom window whenever I look out I do not need.
I did a lot of thinking about what happened that night in Monique’s bar. The whole day—week!—had a fairly nightmarish quality and sometimes it’s hard to remember all the gory details. Whenever I try, my mind veers off to sweater sales and leather gloves. All the winter stuff is in the stores now, and I need to stock up.<
br />
Jessica asked me about it, and Tina did, too, but Sinclair avoided the subject entirely, and I wasn’t sure why. I told them the truth—I didn’t remember much between getting staked, and Marc pulling the stake out.
What I didn’t tell them was the one thing I did remember: Sinclair’s voice floating out of the dark, coaxing, commanding, and saying the same thing over and over again: "Come back. Come back. Don’t leave me. Come back."
Weird. And sometimes I wonder if I dreamed it. Or hallucinated it. Or, most amazing of all, if he really said it. God knows I wasn’t going to ask him … I was still building up my courage to talk to the dead gardener.
So, either I can’t be killed, or the king of the undead brought me back by the sheer force of his will. Either way, something to think about.
But not today. Neiman’s is having a sale, and I desperately need a cashmere cardigan. I’d prefer red, but I’ll take any primary color. Jessica’s paying! She says it’s a "congrats on coming back from the dead again" present. Works for me.
Author’s Note
Pretty much without exception, the events in this book are entirely made up. Vampires don’t stay at the Marquette Hotel; nor do they work the cash registers at Macy’s.
However, as of the time of this writing, if you go to a WorkForce Center in Minnesota, they aren’t allowed to answer questions about unemployment insurance. And at some centers, you really aren’t allowed to use their phones to call someone who can. Honest.
Also, visitors to Summit Avenue will note that the house across from the governor’s mansion A) isn’t Betsy’s, and B) isn’t at the end of the block. Artistic license, which is a fancy way of saying I was lazy.
UNDEAD AND UNEMPLOYED
MaryJanice Davidson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
UNDEAD AND UNEMPLOYED
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation edition / August 2004
Copyright © 2004 by MaryJanice Davidson Alongi.
Excerpt from Derik’s Bane copyright © 2004 by
Mary Janice Davidson Alongi.
Excerpt from For Pete’s Sake copyright © 2004 by Geri Buckley.
Cover illustration by Chris Long.
Cover design by Joni Friedman.
Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-425-19748-4
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The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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BERKLEY SENSATION and the "B" design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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DERIK’S BANE
Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!
The present
Michael Wyndham stepped out of his bedroom, walked down the hall, and saw his best friend, Derik Gardner, on the main floor headed for the front door. He grabbed the banister and vaulted, dropped fifteen feet, and landed with a solid thud he felt all the way through his knees. "Hey, Derik!" he called cheerfully. "Wait a sec!"
From his bedroom he heard his wife mutter, "I hate when he does that … gives me a flippin’ heart attack every time," and he couldn’t help grinning. Wyndham Manor had been his home all his life, and the only time he walked up or down those stairs was when he was carrying his daughter, Lara. He didn’t know how ordinary humans could stand walking around in their fragile little shells. He’d tried to talk to his wife about this on a few occasions, but her eyes always went flinty and her gun hand flexed, then the phrase "hairy fascist bastard" came up and things got awkward. Werewolves were tough, incredibly tough, but compared to Homo sapiens, who wasn’t?
It was a ridiculously perfect day outside, and he couldn’t blame Derik for wanting to head out as quickly as possible. Still, there was something troubling his old friend, and Michael was determined to get to the bottom of it.
"Hold up," Michael said, reaching for Derik’s shoulder. "I want to—"
"I don’t care what you want," Derik replied without turning. He grabbed Michael’s hand and flung it away so sharply Michael lost his balance for a second. "I’m going out."
Michael tried to laugh it off, ignoring the way the hairs on the back of his neck tried to stand up. "Touchy! Hey, I just want to—"
"I’m going out!" Derik moved, cat quick, then Michael was flying through the air with the greatest of ease, only to slam into the door to the coat closet hard enough to splinter it down the middle.
Michael lay on his back a moment like a stunned beetle. Then he flipped to his feet, ignoring the slashing pain down his back. "My friend," he said, "you are so right. Except you’re going out on the tip of my boot. Pardon me while I kick your ass." This in a tone of mild banter, but Michael was crossing the room in swift strides, barely noticing as his friend Moira, who had just come in from the kitchen, squeaked and jumped out of the way.
Best friend or no, nobody—nobody—knocked the alpha male around in his own. Damned. House. The other Pack members lived there by his grace and favor, thanks very much, and while the forty-room house had more than enough space for them all, certain things were simply. Not. Done.
"Don’t start with me," Derik warned. The morning sunlight was slanting through the skylight, shining so brightly it looked like Derik’s hair was about to burst into flames. His friend’s mouth—usually relaxed in a wiseass grin—was a tight slash. His grass-green eyes were narrow. He looked—Michael had trouble believing it—ugly and dangerous. Rogue. "Just stay off."
"You started it, at the risk of sounding junior high, and you’re going to show throat and apologize, or you’ll be counting your broken ribs all the way to the emergency room."
"Come near me again and we’ll see who’s counting ribs."
"Derik. Last chance."
"Cut it out!" It was Moira, shrieking from a safe distance. "Don’t do this in his own house, you idiot! He won’t stand down and you two morons—schmucks—losers will hurt each other!"
"Shut up," Derik said to the woman he (usually) lovingly regarded as a sister. "And get lost … this isn’t for you."
"I’m getting the hose," she warned, "and then you can pay to have the floors re-sealed."
"Moira, out," Michael said without looking around. She was a fiercely intelligent female werewolf who could knock over an elm if she needed to, but no match for two males squaring off. The day was headed down the shit hole already; he wouldn’t see Moira hurt on top of it. "And Derik, she’s right, let’s take this outside—ooooof!"
He didn’t duck, though he could see the blow coming. He should have ducked, but … he still couldn’t believe what was happening. His best friend—Mr. Nice Guy himself!—was challenging his authority. Derik, always the one to jolly people out of a fight. Derik, who had Michael’s back in every fight, who had saved his wife’s life, who loved Lara like she was his own.
The blow—hard enough to shatter an ordinary man’s jaw—knocked him back a full three steps. And that was that. Allowances had been made, but now the gloves were off. Moira was still shrieking, and he could sense other people filling the room, but it faded to an unimportant drone.
Derik gave up trying for the door and slowly turned. It was like watching an evil moon come over the horizon. He glared, full in the face: a dead-on challenge for dominance. Michael grabbed for his throat, Derik blocked, they grappled. A red cloud of rage swam across Michael’s vision; he didn’t see his boyhood friend, he saw a rival. A challenger.
Derik wasn’t giving an inch, was shoving back just as hard, warning growls ripping from his throat, growls which only fed Michael’s rage (rival! rival for your mate, your cub! show throat or die!) made him yearn to twist Derik’s head off, made him want to pound, tear, hurt—
Suddenly, startlingly, a small form was between them. Was shoving, hard. Sheer surprise broke them apart.
"Daddy! Quit it!" Lara stood between them, arms akimbo. "Just … don’t do that!"
His daughter was standing protectively in front of Derik. Not that Derik cared, or even noticed; his gaze was locked on Michael’s: hot and uncompromising.
Jeannie, frozen at the foot of the stairs, let out a yelp and lunged toward her daughter, but Moira moved with the speed of an adder and flung her arms around the taller woman. This earned her a bellow of rage. "Moira, what the hell? Let go!"
"You can’t interfere" was the small blonde’s quiet reply. "None of us can." Although Jeannie was quite a bit taller and heavier, the smaller woman had no trouble holding Jeannie back. Jeannie was the alpha female, but human—the first human alpha the Pack had known in three hundred years. Moira would follow almost any command Jeannie might make … but wouldn’t let the woman endanger herself or interfere with Pack law that was as old as the family of Man.
Oblivious to the drama on the stairs, Derik started forward again but Lara planted her feet. "Quit it, Derik!" She swung her small foot into Derik’s shin, which he barely noticed. "And Daddy, you quit, too. Leave him alone. He’s just sad and feeling stuck. He doesn’t want to hurt you."
Michael ignored her. He was glaring at his rival and reaching for Derik again, when his daughter’s voice cut through the tension like a laser scalpel. "I said leave him alone!"
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