Undead and Uneasy

by Mara

  "Like I said. Knocked. Then, the fight. Which I won, so don't worry." I decided not to mention Jeannie "Quick Draw" Wyndham. Tina hated it when I got shot. "Turns out they thought we were being sneaky, because Antonia hasn't checked in with them."

  "Um."

  "But I convinced them that we hadn't done away with her or anything, using my Kissinger-like powers of diplomacy."

  "Um-hum."

  "Now we're buddies!" I tried to put as much enthusiasm as I could into that lie. I mean line. "Isn't that great? Even as we speak, they're scouring the town, looking for the hair of Antonia's chinny-chin-chin. Wait, that was the pigs, right? That line made no sense, then. Let me think of—"

  "Majesty! I must beg you to—"

  "I know, I know. I've been answering the phone and the door. It's all gone horribly, horribly wrong, and all because I didn't listen to you." I slung, Babyjon over my shoulder to burp him, tossing the now-empty bottle in the general direction of the sink. "If only I had listened." Babyjon yawned, and I knew how he felt. The lecture loometh.

  "Majesty, I do not wish to alarm you—"

  "Then don't."

  "But I fear the king may be dead."

  "See, that? I find that alarming." I whacked Babyjon a little too hard, because he groaned—then belched. I plunked him into the port-a-crib so I could pace.

  "I'm sorry, Majesty, but it is the only conclusion that fits the data."

  "What the hell makes you think that?"

  "He would have answered me by now, Majesty. In seventy-some years, he has never not answered me. We have a code we use for emergencies, and the other one, no matter what is happening in his or her life, the other one must answer. And he has not."

  "He blew off your super secret vampire code?"

  "I realize that infantile jokes are your way of dealing with serious issues, but with all due respect, Majesty, now is not the time."

  "Noted," I said, chastened.

  "He is not sulking, as you think. He is not hiding. He is not shirking his duties as your groom. And more—"

  "What? There's more? What?"

  "He would never abandon the queen," she said quietly. "No matter how silly he thought the wedding rituals. Someone has him. Or someone has killed him.”

  "What—what are we going to do?"

  I heard a thud and realized that Tina, from eighty zillion miles away, had punched a wall. "I. Will do. Nothing!" Another thud. She was pounding the wall like Rocky Balboa worked a punching bag. "I cannot get back to you. There are riots in France, and all flights are canceled until further notice."

  "Riots?"

  "Surely you saw on CNN—never mind."

  "Oh, the riots! Right, right. The riots. Those pesky French riots."

  She ignored my lame-ass attempt to pretend I was up on current events. "I cannot even charter a private plane. To go by boat would take too long. I am trapped here, Majesty. And you are alone."

  "Tina, it's—" Okay, I had been about to say, a who was I kidding? Tina, one of the smartest people I'd ever met, thought Sinclair was dead. Ergo, he…wasn't.

  I would take refuge in my stubbornness. She was wrong, wrong, wrong and also needed a deep conditioning treatment. I wouldn't let the panic take hold. I wouldn't. It couldn't have me. The panic would have to find someone else to bug; I wasn't going to play ball. Sinclair wasn't dead. Or even in danger.

  Tina was wrong. This one time, in a matter that was as important to her as it was to me, this one time she had screwed up. Who knew why? The stress of being away from home? The hassle of going through Customs via coffin? The important thing was, she was stressed out and jumping to conclusions. Because the alternative was totally beyond my grasp. I couldn't imagine a world without Sinclair in it. And wasn't that silly? Two years ago, I hadn't even known the guy existed.

  "Tina, stop hitting that wall. You're going to hurt yourself."

  "I did," she said dully. "I broke most of the fingers my left hand."

  "Jeez, what are you punching, cement?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, stop. Focus on getting back."

  "But the rioters—the roads are closed, or barricaded.

  No one can get in or out. I cannot help you, my queen,

  I am stuck in this place."

  "Place" came out like "placcccce" because Tina hissed it as opposed to saying it like

  person who wasn't half crazy with guilt and grief.

  More riots in France! Perfect timing. So typical of France not to consider my needs before passing martial law.

  "I know it seems tough, but they'll eventually let planes out, they've got to. For one thing, FedEx can't get there. People need their overnight packages, Tina! They want their Sephora and their cheese. The French people won't stand for it, trust me, the airports won't be closed for long. Or at least get out of the country and take a plane from a country that isn't rioting in the streets."

  "That is . . . excellent advice, Majesty." I could hear the surprise in her voice, but couldn't blame her. It was weird enough Tina hadn't thought of it. Weirder that I had. It showed how upset she real was. And how convinced she was that Sinclair was dead, how rattled her conclusions had made her. "I will start at once. With your permission, I will not waste your time with phone calls unless I have new to report."

  "That's fine, Tina."

  "And, Majesty?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Consider now following my advice. Do not answer the phone, do not answer the door. I doubt whoever ki—"

  "Don't say it!"

  "—I doubt whoever detained His Majesty will U content only with him."

  "That's better. Detained. Yep, that's the word of the day, all right. Listen, be careful."

  "You took the words," she said, "right out of my mouth." And without so much as a "See ya later, gator," she hung up.

  Chapter 21

  He is not dead.

  He is not dead.

  He is not dead, because if he was? I'd kill him.

  But I had to face facts. Sinclair wasn't sulking. For one thing, it wasn't his style. He liked to engage, not withdraw. For another, as silly as he thought the wedding stuff was? He'd never stick me with all of the prep less than two weeks before the big day.

  Well, he might stick me with it, but he wouldn't out-and-out disappear on me. Even when I thought I hated him, he'd been impossible to get rid of Now, when we loved each other, he'd made himself scarce? Not likely.

  Tina was half right: someone had snatched him. 1 Id who? And how come? And where the heck was he?

  I glanced over and saw Babyjon had tired of playing with his soft blocks and toppled over on his side, one thumb corking his mouth shut. He watched me with sleepy blue eyes as I paced, as I grumbled and thought and chewed my nails and prowled back and forth.

  Finally I sat down at the kitchen table, folded my hands, looked at my folded hands, and thought: this is not a coincidence.

  I thought: Sinclair and Marc and Antonia and Garrett and Cathie and Tina and Jessica and Nick and a double funeral and Laura and my mom? All those people either missing or deliberately absenting themselves from my life? And now, of all times? The week my dad and the Ant died? Two weeks before I married the King of the Vampires? Granted, I remember wishing everyone would leave me alone for a few days, but this was ridiculous.

  I thought: Who killed my father and my stepmother? Because this was all just a little too neat, you know? Too neat by a damn shot.

  Didn't they know they were fucking with the queen of the vampires? (Whoever "they" were?) Didn't (hey know what I—we—could do to them?

  Sure they did. They just didn't care. They didn't think I was a threat; no vampire had ever thought I was a threat. They only believed me as I was killing them. And even then, the rumor spread that Sinclair had really done it. Even the European faction had taken a damn year to pay their respects.

  And who was I kidding, calling myself a vampire queen? If I didn't believe the Book of the Dead said Sinclair and I were married, how coul
d I believe it about anything else? Can't have it both ways, Bets, as Jessica might have said.

  So who had seen my weakness, and acted?

  And what the blue hell was I going to do about it?

  This was, of course, assuming it was all about me.

  I almost laughed. Of course this was all about me! Just not in a good way.

  I picked up the phone, dialed my mom's number, and waited for her to answer. "Mom? Listen, I need a favor. The shit's hitting the fan over here, and I don't think it's safe for Babyjon. Can you take him for a couple of days?

  "Mom?

  "Hello?"

  Chapter 22

  “Just what do you think you're doing, young lady?"

  I stared at my mom, whose white curls were straggly in her wrath. She'd roared right over to the mansion in her Honda to kick my ass. I was just having trouble figuring out . . .

  "You want to know why I'm so angry?"

  "Not really."

  "I'll tell you why. You are responsible for this infant." She pointed a nonmanicured index finger at Babyjon, who yawned. "You. Not me. Not your sister."

  "Did Laura talk to—"

  "You. And at the first sign of trouble—"

  "The first?" I yelped.

  "—you come running to me to kiss your boo-boos and make everything all better. Well, I can't, Betsy. You're a grown woman, and it's about time you started acting like one."

  I looked at my mother, Dr. "Suburbs" Taylor, with real irritation. I hadn't felt this close to smacking her since I was fourteen and she'd caught me with her credit cards at the Burnsville Mall (she knew what that shoe sale meant to me!).

  I was a grown woman, and it was about time I started acting like one, eh? Well, let's see. Let's think about all the things this grown woman did that Dr. Taylor, safe in her book stacks, had no clue ever happened.

  There was the overthrowing of not one, but two vampire psychopaths. There was the tracking down and dispatching of the serial killer (though technically Laura got the kill claim on that one). There was taking on the responsibility of governing the vampire nation, whatever the hell that was. The tension of the European faction finally visiting, and solving that subsequent murder. And the zombie in my attic that showed up from God knows where, God knows why, which I had to kill. By myself.

  Oh! And let's not forget about the pack of werewolves who showed up trying to tear my head off!

  All right, to be fair, it wasn't her fault she did in know about any of the above. I had made a conscious choice to leave her out of the vampire side of things, .1 choice wholeheartedly endorsed by Sinclair and Tina.

  But the stuff she knew about was bad enough: the tension of the wedding, not to mention the funerals. Oh! And suddenly being the guardian of a baby. Almost forgot that one! And if she was vague on the details of my vampiric lifestyle, she at least knew the basics: I had died, I had come back, and my life was infinitely more complicated as a result. Oh, and my father had just died.

  Ah, but the broad had a few more left. "Really, Betsy. At the first sign of trouble, your impulse is to dump your problems on someone else. You've got to grow up."

  "Are you taking him for the next two days, or aren't you?"

  My chilly tone must have startled her, because she finally paused for a few seconds, then said, a tad on me meek side, "Of course I'll take him. Laura promised to give me a hand. I just wanted you to know— to realize what you—I just don't want you to get in the habit of—"

  Yawn. I had no time for this. I handed her Babyjon, snug in his carrier (the base was on the front porch, where Mom would pluck it and then strap it unto her backseat), and the diaper bag with the Babycrap™. "Thank you. Good-bye."

  Mom hesitated, glanced down at the baby, then hurriedly looked back up at me. But not so fast I didn't see the flash of distaste cross her features.

  Ah-ha. And duh. Should have guessed that one. "I appreciate that babysitting the living embodiment of your late ex-husband's faithlessness can't be easy, but I 'm not exactly having a fun week, either, Mother."

  "I—I know, Betsy, it's just that—"

  "I have work to do, Mother."

  "What kind of work?"

  "Just a pedicure. You know. The usual thing since I died and came back as a vampire. Thanks for helping me out of yet another frivolous jam."

  "Betsy—if I spoke without thinking—"

  I picked up the phone and stared at her. She clutched the car seat to her, then grimaced and eased up on her grip. Babyjon just watched her. So did I.

  "Betsy, is there something you want to talk about?”

  "Not anymore." I started to dial Minneapolis General. "If you'll excuse me, I need to call the oncology ward. You know, my best friend's new digs? Boy, talk about frivolous! You should hear her bitching about all the puking the chemo makes her do Maybe I should send you over for a pep talk."

  "I went and put my foot in it, then," Mom said, sounding so much more like her old, supportive sell that I almost weakened. "And not only was I unfair, but I've got lousy timing, is that it? Well, you're right and I'm sorry. Other than—this—" She frowned down at the baby. "Is there another way I can help?"

  "Don't be silly, Mom. I know how hard you're working this month, what with your department not teaching courses all summer."

  "Fair enough." She started for the foyer. "When you're ready to listen to me grovel, I'll be glad to do so. For now, dear, please call me if you need anything else. And yes, I'm aware of the irony of encouraging you to call me after this argument."

  Good thing I don't have to point it out, then!" I yelled after her.

  While I waited to be connected to Jessica's room,

  I pondered the odd series of events that led to my mother babysitting her dead rival's youngest child. I hadn’t wanted to call Mom—I wasn't entirely insensitive. On that topic, anyway. And I hadn't been able to reach Laura . . . most likely because she was busy calling my mom. It sounded like they'd already had at least one conversation today, topic: Babyjon.

  But it just wasn't safe around here for Babyjon right now. Shit, it wasn't safe for me. I'd take a lot of chances with my own safety, no problem.

  But not Babyjon's, possibly the only baby, ever, who was going to be really mine.

  Chapter 23

  Some jerk of a male nurse wouldn't connect me (why oh why didn't my vampire mojo work over phone lines?), so I disobeyed Tina (hey, it was that kind of week), hopped in one of Sinclair's Volkswagens (my Ford was in the shop—it needed a new starter), and was at Minneapolis General in fifteen minutes. (One of the blessings of being undead? I never faced rush hour anymore.)

  Sure, at 10:00 p.m. it was way past visiting hours, like I gave a rat fuck. Even when I was alive, I wouldn't have cared. Because I, Betsy Taylor, was . . . an ex-model!

  The key to not getting kicked out of a given restricted area is to stride briskly and look like you have every right to be there. (I learned this my first week as a model . . . in fact, I got backstage passes to Aerosmith that way.) Being tall helped, too. And pretty.

  Look, I've never made a secret of the fact that I was genetically blessed. To ignore said blessings would be like a great painter throwing away her brushes. Or Jessica not using any of her money just because she inherited it from her scumbag father. Why make life harder by not using what you had?

  Anyway, I was striding down the hall toward Jessica's room, having made it past reception to the elevator bank, past several nurse's stations, and I was about thirty feet away from being home—

  "Excuse me? Visiting hours are over."

  I turned and smiled. Visiting Hour Enforcer smiled back. My smile broadened when I noticed the lack of wedding ring on Nurse Guy's finger. He was a cutie, too—about five ten, curly black hair cut short, flawless dark skin the color of expensive coffee. Big, gorgeous dark eyes, the whites almost bluish with health. He smelled like cotton candy and French fries. Two of my favorites!

  So we were grinning at each other like a couple of idiots, wh
en I remembered I had a mission, and he remembered the same.

  "Listen, sorry to be a dick, but visiting hours were over a while ago. But if you want to leave your phone number, I could call you when we're back up for guests."

  I laughed at his audacity. T. Starr, R.N., his name tag read. "I'm getting married in a few days, T. Starr," I replied. "But that's the nicest offer I've had all week."

  "Nuts!" he said, snapping his fingers. "Guess my horoscope was wrong this morning."