Undead and Uneasy u-6

by Maryjane Davidson

  Mom? (Like she couldn't have gotten someone else to watch Babyjon?)

  Sinclair? The guy who knew friggin' everything didn't show up for the double funeral?

  Laura? She rebelled against her mom, the devil, by being the most churchgoing, God-​fearing person you ever saw (when she wasn't killing serial killers or beating the shit out of vampires), but she couldn't be bothered to go to a family funeral?

  Cathie the ghost, on a fucking world tour?

  Antonia? Garrett? Okay, I hadn't known them very long, but they did live in my (Jessica's) house rent-​free. I'd taken her in when her Pack wanted nothing to do with her. When the other werewolves were scared shitless of her. And Garrett? I'd saved him from staking multiple times. But they took off on me, too.

  What the fuck excuse did any of them have? They were supposed to be my friends, my fiancé, my family, my roommates. So why was I rattling around in this big-​ass mansion by myself? Except for Babyjon, snoring in the corner? Shit, nobody even sent me flowers! It wasn't fair. And don't tell me life isn't fair, either. Like a vampire doesn't know that?

  Chapter 7

  “Oh, Your Majesty!“ Tina gasped, sounding tinny and distressed on the other end of the line. ”I'm so dreadfully sorry! My deepest condolences. Oh, your poor parents! Your poor family! I remember when I lost mine, and it's still as fresh as it was—"

  “Me time, Tina, got it?”

  “Majesty, how may I serve?”

  I puffed a sigh of relief. Some things, in this last crazy week, hadn't changed. Tina had always treated me like a queen, and anyone Sinclair loved, she served with everything she had. In fact, she'd had a bit of a crush on me when we first met, until I took care of the little misunderstanding (“I'm straight as a ruler, honey”) and since then our relationship had been kind of complicated: sovereign/servant/friend/assistant. She was still overseas, but at least she was answering her stinking phone.

  “How is the king taking it?”

  “That's just it. He's not.”

  “I am sure he will comfort you in his own way,” she soothed. “You know as well as I that a taciturn man can be difficult even during the—”

  “Tina, did you forget English when you went to France? He's not taking it because he's gone. Vamoosed. Poof. Buh-​bye.”

  “But—where?”

  “Like / know? We haven't, um, been getting along lately, and he went off a bit ago—”

  “And you've been too proud to call him.”

  I said nothing. Nothing!

  “Majesty? Are you still on the line?”

  “You know Goddamned well I am,” I snapped, taking evil pleasure in her groan at the G-​word.

  “I will call him,” she said, sounding cheered to have something to do. “I will request he come to your side at once. Whatever. . . difficulties you two are having, surely deaths in the family will supersede other considerations.”

  “They'd better, if he ever wants to get laid anytime in the next five hundred years,” I threatened, but felt better. Tina was here for me (sort of) and on the case. She wouldn't be trapped in France forever.

  Sinclair would turn up. Marc would reappear from whatever dimension he had slipped into. Antonia would get over her snit-​fit and come home, dragging Garrett behind her on a leash. Jessica's chemo would triumph over the cancer, and she'd sprint home, bossing us around as was her wont. My life (such as it was) would be normal again.

  “How is everyone else taking it?”

  “Well, that's the thing.” I perched on the counter, got comfy, and explained where everyone was. Or where I thought they were, anyway.

  Afterward there was a long, awkward silence on Tina's end, which I broke with a faux-​cheerful, “Weird, huh?”

  “Rat fuck,” Tina muttered, and I nearly toppled off the counter. Tina, ancient bloodsucking thing that she was (she'd made Sinclair, and he was, like, seventy!), had the manners of an Elizabethan lady and almost never swore. She was perfectly proper at all nines.

  “Mother fuck,” she continued. “Conspirational bastard shitstains.”

  "Uh, Tina, I think someone else just got on the line—

  “They're all gone? All of them?”

  “Duh, that's what I just—”

  “For how long?”

  I looked at my watch, which was stupid, as it didn't show the date. “Almost a week now.”

  “I'm calling the king.”

  “Right, I got that the first time. Fine, call him, but he'd better not show up without flowers. And possibly diamonds. Or some Beverly Feldmans! Yeah, the red and gold flats would be perfect—”

  “My queen, you will not leave that house. You will—”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?” Long pause. “Tina?”

  Nothing. Dead line. Again.

  I shrugged and hung up the phone. If the French couldn't get their act together—ever—to win a war, how could they be expected to keep the phone lines open?

  A mystery for another day. For now I had to figure out a feeding schedule for my new (groan) son, visit Jess (she'd want all the gory funeral details), and leave yet another message for Marc. A busy evening, and not even nine o'clock yet.

  Chapter 8

  “You look like hot death," I informed my best friend cheerfully.

  “Go to hell,” she snapped back, then coughed. Her normally gorgeous dark skin was more grayish than ebony, and her eyes were bloodshot. But she sounded a helluva lot better than she did three days ago. They'd finally quit the chemo, so she could get better.

  The horrible thing about chemotherapy, of course, is that it is poison, working by killing both cancerous and normal cells. Jessica said the cancer didn't bug her hardly at all, except for making her tired. It was the cure that fucked her up severely: vomiting, constant nausea, weight loss (and if anyone on the planet didn't need to lose weight, it was scrawny Jess). How fucked up was that, I ask you? In a hundred years, doctors will be laughing their asses off at how we, the century-​old savages, “cured” cancer. I mean, why not just break out the leeches?

  “The moment you barf, I am so out of here.” I plopped down in the chair beside her bed and got comfy, Babyjon snuggled against my shoulder.

  “I haven't barfed since suppertime, and that's because it was Salisbury Steak night.”

  “Who could blame you?”

  “How go the wedding plans?”

  “They sort of screeched to a halt,” I admitted. When you all abandoned me.

  “What? Bets, you've got to pick a dress! You've got to settle on the flowers—the florist is going out of her mind! You've got to meet with the caterer for the final tasting! You've—”

  “I will, I will. There's lots of time.”

  “There's two weeks. Isn't Eric helping you at all?”

  “He's gone. Still sulking.”

  “Oh, Betsy!” she practically yelled, then coughed again. “Will you just call him and apologize?”

  “Me?” I yelped, loud enough to stir Babyjon, who immediately settled back to sleep. “I didn't do a damned thing. He's the one who left in a huff. Stupid runaway groom.”

  “He'll be back,” she predicted. “He can't stay away. He can't leave you, there's no such thing for him. You're in his system like a virus.”

  “Thanks. That's so romantic, I may cry.”

  “Well, don't cry. Nick was in here a while ago all teary and junk.”

  “Big bad Detective Nick Berry, catcher of serial killers?”

  “To be fair, you and Laura and Cathie caught the killer.”

  “Right, but he helped. I mean, he came to the house and warned us.”

  “He made me promise not to die,” she said, folding her arms behind her head and looking supremely satisfied. “And I made him promise. So that's all settled.”

  “Can I borrow that emesis basin?” I asked politely.

  “Cram it, O vampire queen. Nobody barfs but me, it's the new rule.”

  I grinned, but couldn't help feeling the smallest twinge o
f jealousy. Which was completely stupid. But. . . Nick had originally been interested in yours truly. And I'd thought he'd asked Jessica out as a way to get closer to me. In fact, that had been utter wishful thinking on my part.

  I was wildly happy for Jessica, but couldn't help feel a little miffed that Nick had recovered from his unholy lust for me so quickly. Which was also stupid: the whole reason Sinclair had made him forget our blood sharing was to make him forget. Not to mention, I had the sexiest, smartest vampire in the world on my hook.

  When he was talking to me, that is.

  “What's with the kid?”

  “You won't even believe it.”

  Jessica covered her eyes. “Don't even tell me. You're his legal guardian.”

  “Got it in one.”

  She looked up. “Why so glum? You've wanted a baby since you came back from the dead.”

  “But not like this! I mean, gross. Garbage trucks, uh, incinerated birth parents? Yech.”

  “Well, there's plenty of room in the mansion for a baby. And you're crazy about him. And he pretty much only tolerates you. So it all worked out.” She paused. “I'm sorry. That came out wrong.”

  “S'okay. It's always nice when someone else puts their foot in their mouth. I get tired of it sometimes.”

  “Really?” she asked sweetly. “It's hard to tell.”

  “Shut up and die.”

  “See? You just did it!”

  I didn't answer. Instead, I jiggled BabyJon to wake him up. Since I was conked out during the day, and alone, if he cried during the day he was shit out of luck. This was going to be a nocturnal baby, by God.

  “Better start interviewing day nannies,” Jessica observed.

  “There's usually a hundred people hanging around the house,” I complained. “We need one more? And how can we hide all our weird goings on from her? Or him?”

  “How about a vampire nanny?”

  I was silent. The thought hadn't occurred to me.

  Then: “No good. Any vampire would need to sleep during the day.”

  “But Marc, me, Cathie, and Antonia are usually around during the day.”

  I was silent. She had enough problems without knowing that everyone had disappeared on me.

  “Maybe a really old vampire? You know Sinclair can stay awake most of the day. Find some seventy-​year-​old bloodsucker for the job.”

  “Oh, sure, what a great honor. 'Hey, ancient vampire, mind changing the shitty diapers of my half brother? And don't forget to burp him before his nappy-​nap. Also, don't suck his sweet, new, baby blood.'”

  “Blabbb,” Babyjon agreed. He turned his head and smiled sweetly at Jessica. He really was getting cute. When he was born, he looked like a pissed-​off plucked chicken. Now he'd filled out with sweetly plump arms and legs, a rounded belly, and a sunny grin. His hair was a dark thatch that stood up in all directions. Jessica grinned back; she couldn't help it.

  “He's definitely growing on me,” she said.

  “Like a foot fungus.”

  Jessica's door whooshed open, and the night nurse stood there. Luckily for me, it was a man. “I'm sorry, miss, but visiting hours were over an hour ago.”

  I slid my sunglasses down my nose and said, “Get lost. I can stay as long as I like.”

  “These aren't the droids you're looking for,” Jessica added, giggling.

  Like a badly maintained robot, the nurse swung around and walked stiffly away.

  I propped my feet up on Jessica's bed and got comfy. Babyjon squirmed and, to divert him, I plopped him on her bed. He wriggled for a moment, then flopped over .and popped his thumb in his mouth, his deep blue eyes never leaving my face.

  “So, dish. How was the funeral?”

  “Gruesome. And filled with lies.”

  “So, like the Ant was in life?”

  I laughed for the first time in two days. God, I loved her. That chemo was going to work. Or I would not be responsible for my actions.

  Chapter 9

  The phone rang (at 1 a.m.!), and I lunged for it. "Sinclair? Hello? You rat bastard, where the hell have you—?

  “Is this the head of Antonia's den?” a deep male voice asked.

  I was flummoxed. It was a week for weird phone calls, barfing best friends, and fucked up funerals.

  “Which Antonia?”

  “The only Antonia. Tall, slender, dark hair, dark eyes, werewolf who can't Change?”

  “Oh, the live one! Yeah, this is her, um, den.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  I was having major trouble following the conversation. “Explain what?”

  “She has not checked in this month. As her pro tem Pack leader, you are responsible.”

  “Responsible for what?”

  “Her safety.”

  “What's a pro tem what's-​it?”

  “Do not play the fool, vampire.”

  “Who's playing? And how'd you know I was a—I mean, who are you calling a vampire?”

  “I gave Antonia leave to den with you under strict conditions. You are breaking those conditions.”

  'What conditions are you—?"

  “Produce her at once, or suffer the consequences.”

  “Produce her? She's not a manufactured good! Who is this?”

  “You know who this is.”

  “Dude: I totally completely do not.”

  “Your attempts to act an idiot will not sway me from my course.”

  “Who's acting?” I cried. “Who are you, and what the hell are you talking about?”

  There was a long pause, punctuated by heavy breathing. Great. A prank call from a pervert. “Very well,” the deep voice growled. Really growled; I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck trying to stand up. “Be it on your head and suffer the consequences.”

  Click.

  Story of my life, this week.

  I stared at the now-​dead phone, then threw it at the wall hard enough for it to shatter into a dozen pieces.

  Chapter 10

  The next evening, after feeding Babyjon his 10 p.m. bottle, burping him, and plopping him into the playpen in the kitchen, I took the new phone out of the box (thank goodness for twenty-​four-​hour Walgreens).

  I had literally just hooked up, and hung up, the phone when it rang, making me jump right out of my skin. I snatched up the new receiver.

  “What freak is calling me now?”

  “Only I, Your Majesty.”

  “Tina! You sound tinny. Still in France?” “Still. And worse: I have been unable to raise the king.”

  Raise him at poker? was my wild thought. “What?” I asked, my word of the week.

  “He has never, in seventy-​some years, not returned a call, or a letter, or a telegram, or a fax.”

  “Well. He was pretty grumpy when he left.” “Grumpy.” Tina let out a most unladylike snort, almost as startling as when she was swearing like—well, me. “I dislike this. I dislike this extremely. I will be returning on the next flight.”

  “But what about the European vamp—”

  “Hang them. Hang them all. This is much more distressing. Besides, there's not much to do here. After the show you put on a few months ago, they're quite terrified of you.”

  I smirked and buffed my nails on my purple tank top. It was all the sweeter because it was true: they'd seen me pray, and that had been enough for them.

  “On the next flight? How are you gonna pull that off? Isn't it, like, a twenty-​hour flight? Some of it during daylight hours?”

  “I'll travel the traditional way, of course. In a coffin in the cargo hold. Our people here will forge a death certificate and other appropriate paperwork.”

  I shuddered and gave thanks, once again, that I was the queen, and not a run-​of-​the-​mill vampire. Don't get me wrong; I'd prefer to be alive. But if I had to be dead. . . “Tina, that sucks.”

  “Recent circumstances are highly suspect. The king would not leave you for so long —”

  “It's only been a few days—”r />
  “—nor would he ignore my messages. Something is wrong.”

  “He doesn't want to wear the navy blue tux I picked out?” I guessed.

  “Majesty. This is serious.”

  I shrugged, forgetting she couldn't see me. “If you say so.”

  “Until I return, do not answer the door. You will not try to contact anyone who has gone missing. You will not answer the phone unless the caller ID tells you it is me.” Her subservient tone was long gone; this was a general thinking fast and issuing orders. “Your Majesty, do you understand me?”

  “Uh, sure. Simmer.”

  “I will simmer,” she hissed, “when I get a few heads on sticks. And the devil pity the rat fuck who gets in my way.”

  “Yeesh.”

  “Heads. On. Sticks.”

  “I got it the first time.”

  On that happy note, she hung up.

  Chapter 11

  I broke one of the rules less than twenty-​four hours liter. I blamed sleep deprivation. Despite my efforts over the last three days, Babyjon still had the whole “stay awake at nighttime” thing a little mixed up. (But then, so did I.)

  Small wonder. The Ant, Satan rest her soul, had stuck him with night nannies all the time, and they had encouraged him to sleep so they could goof off.

  I groped for the bedside phone, forgetting to check the caller ID. “Mmph. . . lo?”

  “—can—hear—”

  For a change, I actually identified the crack In voice. “Marc! Where the hell are you?”

  “—can't—make—drop—”

  “Are you hurt? Are you in trouble?”

  “—trouble—fucked—death”

  “Oh my God!” I screamed, instantly snapping all the way awake. I glanced at the bedside clock; four-​thirty in the afternoon. In his port-​a-​crib, Babyjon snored away. “You are in trouble! Can you get to a computer? Can you send me an e-​mail? Why aren't you answering my e-​mails? Tell me where you are, and I'll come get you!” With a baby in tow, I neglected to add.

  “—can't—worry—trouble—”