A word about Garrett. Nostro, the old vampire king—the one Sinclair and I had killed—had liked to starve newly risen vampires. And when that happened, they turned feral. Worse than feral. . . animals— scrambling about on all fours and never showering or anything. They were like rabid, flesh-eating pit bulls. Two-hundred-pound, rabid, flesh-eating pit bulls.
Laura and Sinclair and Tina had insisted I stake the lot of them. I'd refused—they were victims and couldn't help their unholy craving for human flesh. And I'd been vindicated, I think. By drinking my blood (yurrgh!), or my sister's blood (better, but still yucky), Garrett (known back then as George) had recovered his humanity. Even better, he had become capable of love with Antonia.
So Garrett seemed fine now. But I didn't know enough about Fiends, or vampires (shit, I'd only been one for little more than a year) to try another experiment, and so a cute loyal vamp named Alice cared for the other Fiends, and Antonia and Garrett kept each other out of my hair.
Maybe someday soon, I'd ask Laura if she'd let another Fiend suck her blood, but now was definitely not the time.
All the cars driving by outside (stupid Vamp hearing!) were distracting me from the insipid service preached by a man who clearly had never met my dad or his second wife.
Once again I was struck by the fact that, no matter what rotten thing happened, no matter how earth-shaking events became, life (and undeath) went on. People still drove to and from work. Drove to the movies. Drove to doctors, airports, schools. Hopefully none of them were getting the accelerator mixed up with the brake.
I stifled a sneeze against the overwhelming scent of too many flowers (Chrysanthemums, ugh! Not to mention, the Ant hated 'em), embalming fluid (from one of the back rooms, not Dad and the Ant), and too much aftershave.
If nobody else was going to say it, I would: being a vampire was not all it was cracked up to be. Even though it was 7:00 p.m., I had sunglasses on for multiple reasons. One, because the lights, dim as they were, made me squint. Two, if I caught the gaze of an unmarried man, or an unhappily married man, he'd more than likely slobber all over me until I coldcocked him. Stupid vampire mojo.
Most annoying, one of my few blood relatives (I had three: my mother, my ailing grandfather, and my half sister), Laura, wasn't there either. She hadn't known my father at all, had only recently met her birth mother, the Ant (the devil had possessed the Ant long enough to get her pregnant and then decided childbirth was worse than hell), and so busied herself with interesting logistics like the wake and the burial arrangements.
Cathie the ghost had also disappeared—-just for a while, she told me nervously. Not to heaven, or wherever spirits vamoosed to. Her whole life she'd never been on a plane, never left the state of Minnesota. So she had decided to see the world, and why not? It wasn't like she needed a passport. And she knew she was welcome back here anytime.
“—perhaps this is the Lord's way of telling us to get yearly driver's exams over the age of fifty—”
I smoothed my black Versace suit and peeped down at my black Prada pumps. Both very sensible, very dignified, the former was a gift from Sinclair, the latter a Christmas present from Jessica four years ago. If you get the good stuff and take care of it, it'll last forever.
Just thinking of Jessica made me want to cry— which made me feel like shit. I was sitting through a double funeral totally dry-eyed, but the thought of my cancer-riddled best friend was enough to make me sob. Thank goodness Marc, an MD for a Minneapolis emergency ward, was taking care of her.
I mean, had been taking care of her. Once he made sure Jessica was squared away, Marc had disappeared, too. That was more alarming than anything else, funerals included: Marc Spangler did not have a life. He didn't date. He didn't sport fuck. His life was the hospital and hanging around vampires.
I'd been calling his cell for days and kept getting voice mail or, worse, no signal at all. It was like he'd gone to Mars.
“—the comfort of many years of mutual love and affection—”
Oh, fucking blow me. Mutual credit lines and many years of the Ant seducing my dad and then begging for a fur coat. He'd married her for lust, and she'd married him for his money And on and on and on, and never mind the cost to my mother's heart, or soul, and never mind that it had taken Mom the better part of a decade to pick up the pieces.
And thinking about the good Dr. Taylor (doctorate in history, specialty: the Civil War; subspecialty: the Battle at Antietam), my mom wasn't here, either. I knew she and my dad hadn't been on good terms for years, and I knew she cordially loathed the Ant (and believe me, the feeling was sooo mutual), but I thought she might come so I'd have a hand to hold.
Her reply to an invitation to the funeral was to quirk a white eyebrow and throw some Kehlog Albren my way: “ 'Sometimes the best of friends can't attend each other's funerals.' And your father and I were not the best of friends, dear, to say the least.”
In other words: Nuts to you, sugar bear.
But she was helping in her own way, taking care of Babyjon. I'd go see them after. Only Babyjon's sweet powder smell and toothless (well, semitoothless; he had three by now), drooly smile could cheer me up right now.
I sighed, thinking of the empty mansion waiting for me. Even my cat, Giselle, had gone on walkabout. Normally I didn't care. Or notice. But it was scary staying in the big place by myself. I wished Sinclair would come home. I wished I wasn't still so mad at him I wouldn't call him. Most of all, I wished—
“The interment will be at Carlson Memorial Cemetery,” the minister was saying. “For those of you who wish to follow the deceased, please put on your headlights.”
—that this was over.
I stood and smoothed my black dress, checked my black pumps and matching hose. Perfect, from head to toe. I looked exactly like a smartly dressed, yet grief-stricken, daughter. I wasn't going to follow my dead lather to Carlson Memorial, though, and never mind appearances. My headstone was there, too.
I followed the mourners out, thinking I was the last, only to stop and wheel around at a whispered, “Your Majesty?”
I recognized her at once. Any vampire would. I was even supposed to be afraid of her (every vampire was). Except I wasn't. “Do not, do not blow my cover,” I hissed to Marjorie, who looked like a librarian (she was) but was also an eight-hundred-year-old vampire.
She was dressed in sensible brown shoes (blech), a navy blue skirt, and a ruffled cream blouse. Her brown hair was streaked with gray, and her pale face was played up with just the right amount of makeup. “Forgive my intrusion, Majesty.”
“What are you doing at a funeral home, anyway? There's probably a whole back room full of Bibles in this place.”
Marjorie grimaced at “Bibles,” but readily answered. “I read about the accident in the paper and came to pay my respects, Majesty. I regret the deaths of your father and mother.”
“She was not my mother,” I corrected out of years of habit. “But thanks. That's why you're lurking? To pay your respects?”
“Well, I could hardly sit through the service.”
I almost giggled at the image of ancient Marjorie, probably the oldest vamp on the planet, cowering in the vestibule with both hands clamped over her ears, lest she hear a stray “Jesus” or “the Lord works in mysterious ways.”
I, if I may be immodest for a brief moment, could hear any religious epithet, prayer, or Christmas carol. It was a perk of being the vampire queen.
“If you need anything, you will please call on me,” she insisted.
Oh, sure, Marjorie. I'd love to go to the warehouse district and hang around in the vamp library, checking out thousand-year-old dusty tomes and being more depressed than I already am. I avoided that place like most vamps avoided churches. Even in life, I'd never been a fan of libraries.
Luckily, Marjorie took care of all that tedious stuff for Sinclair and me. And even more luckily, she had zero interest in grabbing power. She'd lived through three or four king
s (I think. . . I was vague on bloodsucker history) and had been content to putter among her stacks while they wreaked their reigns of terror. She had outlasted them all. I wondered idly if she would outlast me and Sinclair. Would she even remember us, two thousand years from now?
As stiff as she was, I had to admit it was nice to see her. At least somebody had bothered to show up, even if it was a vampire.
“Are you going to the cemetery?”
And see my own grave again? Not a chance in hell. But all I said out loud was, “There's nothing for me there.”
Marjorie seemed to understand and bowed slightly as I turned on my (elegant) heel and left.
Chapter 5
I had heard the car turn in the drive, of course (sometimes I could hear a cricket from a mile away), but took my time walking to the door and listening to the increasingly frantic hammering.
Finally, after growing weary of my passive aggressiveness, I opened my front door and immediately went for the kill. “Thanks for all the support at the funeral, Mom. Really helpful. Why, with you there I didn't feel like an orphan or anything! Having a shoulder to lean on and all was such a comfort.”
My mother brushed by me, BabyCrap™ (an established property of Babyjon™) in tow. She smelled like burped up milk. She was wearing a blue sweater (in summertime!) and plum-colored slacks, with black flats. Her mop of curls was even more a mess than usual.
“By the way,” I said cheerfully, “you look like dried up hell.”
She ignored that. “A funeral service is no place for an infant,” she panted, struggling to manage all the paraphernalia. It was amazing. . . the kid wasn't even a year old, and he had more possessions than I did.
Mom thrust Babyjon at me and I bounced him in my arms, then kissed the top of his head. I might have been pissed at her, but damn, I was glad to see him .
“You missed a helluva party,” I said dryly.
“No doubt.” Mom puffed white curls off her forehead. “Your father was all about parties. That's why he was foolish enough to ingest a magnum of champagne and then go joy riding into the back of a garbage truck with your stepmother.”
Hey, they needed a break from all the selfless charity work. I paused, gauged what I was thinking, and then shelved it. Nope. Too soon for jokes. They'd only been in their graves for half an hour. Maybe by tomorrow. . .
“How are you holding up, dear?”
“Like you care!”
She scowled at me, and I almost giggled. Hadn't I seen that scowl enough times in my own mirror? But I remained a stone. “You've had a difficult day. . .”
“And you'd know this how?”
“But my day hasn't exactly been a day at the zoo, either. So answer my question, young lady, or you'll find you're not too big to spank.” This was laughable, since I could break my mom's arm by breathing on it.
“Well?”
“I forgot the question,” I admitted.
“How was the funeral?”
“Besides my entire support system, present company included, abandoning me in my most dire time of need?”
“I think your death was your most dire time of need,” she corrected me. “And the only ones who abandoned you then are underground now.”
This was true, but I was in no mood for logic. “And you didn't even say good-bye. I know you didn't like them, but Jesus!”
And why were we screaming at each other in the foyer? Maybe I was still too mad to make nicey-nice hostess, even to Mom, whom I usually adored. How could I not adore someone who welcomed her daughter back from the dead with open arms? “Someone had to watch your son,” she replied sharply. “And it's not as though you have no friends. Where is everybody, anyway?” “The question of the day,” I muttered. No way was I telling her Sinclair and I were fighting—she liked him, if possible, more than she liked me. And she'd worry herself sick about Jessica. And she didn't know Marc or Laura that well, or the others at all.
Then the full impact of her words hit me like a hammer upside the head. "Someone had to watch my what?”
“ Jon .”
“What?”
She pointed at my half brother, as if I'd forgotten I was holding him in my arms. In fact, I had. “Your son. The reading of the will? Yesterday? Remember?”
“You know full well I wasn't there. My nails were a mess, and it's not like the Ant was going to let Dad leave me a damned thing. So I gave myself a manicure in Wine Cordial.”
My mother sighed, the way she used to sigh when I told her my middle school term project was due later in the morning, and I hadn't even started yet. “In the event of their deaths, you're his legal guardian. They're dead. So guess what?”
“But—but—” Babyjon cooed and wriggled and looked far too happy with the circumstances. I couldn't decide whether to be thrilled or appalled. I settled on appalled. “But I didn't want a baby like this .”
“Like what?”
“Like—you know. Via the vehicle of death.”
Mom frowned. “What was that again?”
“I mean, I wanted my own baby. Mine and Sinclair's baby.”
“Well, you've got this one,” she said, completely unmoved by my panic.
“But—”
“And you certainly have the means to bring him up properly.”
“But—”
“Although I wonder. . . will he get his days and nights confused, living with you two as parents?”
“That's the burning question on your mind? Because I can think of a few dozen other slightly more pressing ones!”
“Dear, don't scream. My hearing is fine.”
“I'm not ready!”
“You're still screaming. And no one ever is, dear.” She coughed. “Take it from me.”
“I can't do it!”
“We all say that in the beginning.”
“But I really really can't!”
“We all say that, too. Well, the first twenty years, anyway.”
I thrust him toward her, like I was offering her a platter of hors d'ouevres. “You take him!”
“My dear, I am almost sixty years old.”
“Sixty years young,” I offered wildly.
Mom shot me a black look. “My child-rearing days .ire over. You, on the other hand, are eternally young, have a support system, a rich best friend, a fine soon-to-be-husband, legal guardianship, and a blood tie.”
“And on that basis I'm the new mom?”
“Congratulations,” she said, pushing the baby back toward my face. His great, blue googley eyes widened at me, as his mouth formed a drool-tinged O. “It's a boy. And now, I have to go.”
“You’re leaving?” I nearly shrieked.
“I'm supposed to visit your grandfather in the hospice this afternoon. You remember your grandfather, dear? Lest you accuse others of neglect.”
“I can't believe you're leaving me like this! I have three words for you, Mother—state-funded nursing home. Do you hear me? STATE-FUNDED NURSING HOME!!!” I yelled after her, just as Babyjon yarked milk all over my beautiful black designer suit.
Chapter 6
The kitchen phone rang, and I ran toward it, stopping to plop Babyjon in his port-a-crib (a subsidiary of BabyCrap™) on the way, where he promptly flopped over on his back and went to sleep. Yeah, well, dead parents were exhausting for everybody.
I gave thanks for all the junk we'd bought when he'd been born, hoping to have occasional chances to babysit. Babysit, not raise him to adulthood! But because of my precautions, we had diapers, cribs, formula, bottles, baby blankets, and onesies up the wazoo.
It was funny, the Ant had only warmed up to nu when she saw how much Babyjon liked me. As .1 newborn, he screamed almost constantly from colic (or perhaps rage at the decor of his nursery) and only shut up when I held him. Once the Ant saw that, I was the number one babysitter.
Sinclair had not been pleased. But I wasn't going to think about Sinclair, except how much I was about to yell at him when I got him on th
e phone.
The thought of surprising Sinclair with this kid, I have to admit, gave me a certain perverse pleasure. It salved the terror I felt at the sudden responsibility.
I skidded across the floor and snatched the phone in the middle of the sixth ring. “Hello? Sinclair? You bum! Where are you? Hello?”
"—can't—cell—''
“Who is this?”
“—too far—can't—hear”
I could barely make out the words through the thick static. “Who! Is! This!”
“—worry—message—country”
“Marc? Is that you?”
“—no other way—don't—okay—”
“Tina?”
“—back—time—”
“Dad? If you're calling from beyond the grave, I'm going to be very upset,” I threatened. There wasn't even a click. Just a dead line.
I sat down at the table, deliberately forgetting about all the times the bunch of us had sat around making smoothies or inventing absurd drinks (e.g., The Queen Betsy: one ounce amaretto, two ounces orange juice, three ounces cranberry juice, seven ounces of champagne, and let me tell you, it was heaven in a martini glass).
I thought: Everybody’s gone. Everybody.
I thought: How could they do this to me?
Okay, Jessica had an excuse. Battling cancer via chemo was a dandy way to get out of social obligations. And Detective Berry—well, I didn't especially want him around. He had known, once upon a time, that I had died and come back to life. I had drunk his blood, once upon a time, and it had gone badly. Sinclair had fixed it by making Nick forget. The last thing I needed was for him to be at the same funeral home he'd come to two Aprils ago for my funeral.
No, it was good for Nick to be at Jessica's side when he wasn't foiling killers and petty thieves.
Same with Tina. When she left to check on the European vampires, she had no idea this was going to happen. No, I couldn't blame her, either.
But Marc? He of all people didn't have a life, and he picks now to disappear? To not call, or return calls?
Undead and Uneasy u-6 Page 3
