Undead and Unworthy u-7

by Maryjane Davidson

  “But she's a werewolf!” I shook Sinclair's comforting hand off my shoulder.

  Tina looked up at me, eyes almost black with sympathy. “Her brains are all over the floor, Majesty. There will be no coming back from this.”

  I barely noticed Garrett get up and slip out of view.

  “But she – she's Antonia!” Foulmouthed and smart and strong and invulnerable. And alive – always so vibrantly, shockingly alive. “She can't be – I mean, shot? It's such a mundane way for someone like her to – ”

  “No.” Jessica staggered as if the shock was going to knock her on her ass, and Nick steadied her. “No, she can't be. You're wrong. She's not.”

  And the worst part was – “She jumped in front of me. She – saved me.”

  “Everybody saves you,” Nick said neutrally. He tried to slip his arm around a sobbing Jessica, but she knocked it away.

  Then we heard the splintering crash come from the stairwell.

  I stood, trembling at the subsequent silence, and peered into the foyer. I choked back a sob at what Garrett had done to himself.

  The regretful Fiend-​turned-​vampire had kicked the banister off a stretch of curved stairs in the foyer, leaving a dozen or so of the rails exposed and pointing up like spears. Then he had climbed to the second floor to a spot overlooking the stairs and swan dived onto the rails, which had gone through him like teeth.

  “See?” the Ant said sadly as we stared down at the second body of a friend in less than a minute. “I warned you.”

  “Yeah, well.” I wiped my face. “You could have been a lot more specific.”

  “I didn't know exactly. But I had a feeling. This stuff is pretty inevitable around you.”

  “Please go away.”

  “Yes, I think so. You wouldn't believe how depressing all this is. Good-​bye, for now.” And like that, she was gone.

  “We'll take care of the bodies,” my husband told me quietly.

  Jessica kicked the wall and wiped tears from her cheeks. “Take care of the bodies? Just like that? It's not that easy, Eric. You can't just snap your fingers and make vampire minions clean up the crap. Not this time. What about Chief Hamlin? How are we going to explain that?”

  “Don't worry about it,” Nick said, clearly uncomfortable. “I can fix that.”

  “You can fix that,” I spat. “Like you helped us fix things with the Fiends. Like you wanted me to fix your problems. You're going to fix this.”

  Sensing my lack of faith, he coughed and softened his tone. “Yeah. I can. I promise. Um, Betsy. You've had a rough – I mean, maybe you should, uh, go lie down.”

  “I agree,” Sinclair said, too quickly. "Elizabeth, let us handle this for you.

  I wanted to leave. God help me, I wanted to run away from this house and never, ever come back.

  But I'd settle for fleeing to my bedroom and dropping the mess in my husband's lap. And the cop who hated me.

  “It was all just so – so stupid,” I said. And preventable , my conscience whispered. If only you'd been paying attention to business...

  I trudged up the stairs. Nobody went with me, which suited me fine.

  Chapter 47

  Sinclair came upstairs hours later and cuddled me into his side. I sighed, and he stroked my shoulder and then kissed that same shoulder. I closed my eyes and breathed in his scent... warm, clean cotton. And dried blood, of course. Mustn't forget that. Not ever.

  “She died well.”

  “I don't give a fuck. I want her back. I want her here.”

  “As do I, Elizabeth. But I will honor her memory forever, for the sacrifice she made. It might have been your brains all over the foyer.”

  “Well, what if it was? Why should I be alive and Antonia be so much cooling meat?”

  “I do not know, dear one. But I am fervently glad it worked out the way it did, for all I was fond of Antonia.”

  I mulled that one over for a minute or two while Sinclair sat up, slipped off my shoes, and rubbed my feet. I wiggled my toes against his palms and almost smiled. Then felt bad for thinking it'd be okay to smile, even for a second.

  “I just don't get it,” I said at last.

  “Get it?”

  “When stuff this awful happens, you're supposed to learn something. Look Both Ways Before You Cross The Street. Be Kind To Children And Small Animals. Something. Jeez, anything. But there was all this death, all this waste, and for what?”

  Sinclair was quiet for so long I assumed I'd stumped him, a rare and wonderful thing. But he was just trying to figure out how to break it to me. Should have known.

  “It is that to be queen,” he said at last. “There will be times when you will see an ocean of blood and despair. So it says in the Book of the Dead, and so it shall be, dear wife.”

  “You suck at cheering me up. You're not telling me there's gonna be worse days than this?” To say I was appalled would be putting it mildly. “What else did that rotten Book of the Dead tell you?”

  He paused for a long time. Then: “Elizabeth, I can promise nothing, save that I will always be by your side.”

  I noticed he didn't answer the question. “Oceans of blood,” I said.

  “Possibly. Yes.”

  “We'll just see about that.”

  “Elizabeth, if you'll forgive a pun, do not bite off more than you can chew.”

  “That's been the story of my life since I woke up in that funeral home wearing the Ant's shoes. Oceans of blood? Shit on that. Shit all over that.”

  I had no idea what I was going to do, or how. But I was going to work real hard to make sure my friends and I never had to go through a week like this again.

  This was going to sound dumb, but the empty crib in the next room was practically calling my name. I had to stop fobbing my brother on other people.

  I wondered if the Ant ever visited him.

  Chapter 48

  It was a day later; Garrett had been respectfully buried. Sinclair owned several farms and lots of land; what with Alice's remains, among others, we were starting quite the little private cemetery out on Route 19. It was awful and interesting at the same time.

  The police chief's body had been found in his home, dead from an apparent suicide. Many cops went on record saying he had been deeply depressed about retiring but had rejected counseling.

  Deeply depressed. Yeah. They didn't know the half of it.

  “I have to tell Antonia's pack leader what happened. They deserve to know what happened to her, how she died. How she – how wonderful she was. I got the impression her pack never appreciated her, didn't you guys?”

  They all nodded. Sure, we knew. Her ability to tell the future (and not turn into a wolf) had given all the other werewolves the creeps. They had been happy to see her go. And when I had “fixed” her, the fact that she hadn't rushed back home meant so much to me. She chose to stick it out with me.

  I'd never get the chance to thank her. As far as a recall, I don't think I ever thanked her for anything.

  My chest hitched once... twice... then settled. No, I was done crying for a while.

  “Anyway, I want them all to know how she saved me. Hopefully they can guide us in how to treat... what's left of her.”

  Poor Antonia was in our basement freezer until I learned more about werewolf rituals for their dead. I wasn't looking forward to telling the boss werewolf that I'd gotten his pack member killed (Michael Wyndham had a wicked temper and a terrifying left cross), but it was something that had to be done.

  Jessica didn't say anything, just poured herself another cup of tea. I'd told her my plan the night before in a lame attempt to distract her from breaking up with Nick. I felt tremendously guilty that she'd picked me over him. Of course, I would have felt a lot worse if she'd gone the other way.

  Maybe someday they could patch things up. I'd see if I could do something about that. He'd been hurt and scared and said things he didn't mean. I had tried to explain it to Jessica last night, but had no idea if she really heard m
e. Maybe... in time...

  But maybe it was for the best if they never got back together. It would sure cut down on the vampire attacks he had to endure... the price of admission when you hung out with the people in Monster Mansion. And I truly didn't know how much more Nick could endure. He seemed like a rubber band, stretched almost – but not quite – to the breaking point.

  I shook my head, then noticed Marc was shaking his head. “I spend one Goddamn week in a hotel and then this.” He was feeling as guilty as I was; he was convinced he could have done something for Antonia if he'd been here.

  “Mathematically,” Tina began gently, “given the age and abilities of our opponents, we got off rather lightly. And Garrett made his own choice. I – ”

  “That's enough,” I said coldly, and Tina shut up.

  “When?” my husband asked, mildly enough. “I'll need to clear my schedule.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “As you wish.”

  “I'll come with, if you like,” Laura offered. She'd been agog all evening, listening to our tale of the awful events of the night earlier. “It's not trouble at all.”

  I was glad she had missed it (yay, church youth group!), to be honest. No telling what the body count would have been if she'd lost her temper. Or where the chief's bullets might have gone if he'd known who had really killed dear old dad. Just the thought of it gave me the willies.

  In fact, it was safe to say that her temper was hanging over my head like a friggin' broadsword. Someday I was going to have to really sit down and figure out just what the deal was with the devil's daughter.

  But not today. Not even this month. I was just so fucking tired.

  “I'd be glad to come,” my sister was continuing, eager to help. “I've got a Toys for Tots meeting, but it's no problem to postpone – ”

  “No, I need you to stay here and hold down the fort. And Tina – Richard, Stephanie, and Jane need looking after. Move them here while we're out of town, if that helps. Or you can move out to the McMansion until we get back. It's just temporary, until we can figure out something more permanent.”

  Tina nodded and jotted a note to herself on the notepad she always kept nearby. “As you wish, Majesty.”

  “I'll keep BabyJon for you,” Laura volunteered.

  I smiled at my sister and shook my head, then turned to my husband. “Actually, I'd like to bring him to the Cape with us, if you don't mind. I've been spending too much time fobbing him off on other people, which is no good. I'm the only mother he's got now.”

  Sinclair tried to hide the wince (not a baby guy, my husband), but nodded. “As you like, Elizabeth. I do agree, we should probably get used to the idea of being” – he didn't quite gag on the word – 'parents'.

  “A fine thing, my son being brought up by vampires,” the Ant said.

  “I suppose you're coming, too.”

  “Of course,” my dead stepmother said, amused.

  “That reminds me,” I told my puzzled friends. “I figured it out. Why the Ant's here.”

  “To find a cure for bad dye jobs?” Jessica joked.

  “Not hardly. See, she lived for making me miserable, she got off on setting my dad against his only kid, she loved irritating me in a thousand small ways.”

  “You make it sound as if that was my only purpose in life,” the Ant sniffed.

  “It was.”

  “What was?” Jessica asked.

  I kept forgetting no one could hear her or see her but me. Lucky, lucky me. “Never mind. Point is, she's not done yet,” I finished. “Not near done. So she's not going anywhere. She can't.”

  “Believe me, I've tried,” she said sourly.

  “So we're stuck with her indefinitely.”

  “That's right!” the Ant said triumphantly. “No more Mrs. Nice Guy!”

  Exactly. Things were going to be very, very different from now on.

  But the Ant didn't know me. Not the new me, the me that forced Fiends to their knees and broke necks and cured cancer. She was going to have her hands full.

  For that matter, anyone who got in my way, who hurt my friends, who tried to stop me from making the world better, was going to have their hands full.

  They didn't know this queen. Not like I did.

  Epilogue

  “You again.”

  “Me again,” I agreed, plonking the six-​pack of Budweiser into my grandpa's lap. He let out a yelp and gave me a look like he'd like to burn me alive. I'm sure if he'd had a can of gasoline and a box of matches, he would have tried.

  He slipped a can free, popped the top, took a greedy swig, then let out a satisfied belch. “Ahhhh. You're not entirely useless.”

  “Aw, Grandpa. That gets me right here.”

  He grunted and almost smiled – almost. “Where's the new guy? The Injun you married?”

  “It's Native American, you old jerk.”

  “Oh, fuck me and spare me that PC crap.”

  I could see we weren't going to get anywhere unless I worked around to my topic of conversation a lot faster.

  “To answer, he's looking after his business and junk like that.” Truth was, I had no interest in involving myself in Sinclair's business affairs. One, it would have bored me near to death. Two, he'd been making himself rich for decades. He sure didn't need any help from me.

  I settled myself into the chair across from the bed. He was in his wheelchair (the one he didn't need) by the window. It had been full dark for half an hour.

  “So what's on your brain, Betsy?”

  “I distinctly remember you telling me on several occasions that I didn't have one,” I teased gently.

  “Yeah, well, you never come over without a purpose. Introducing the new guy. Telling me about that twat and your dad when they died. So what do you want? There's a Sandford and Son marathon starting in twenty minutes.”

  “How d'you do it?”

  “Do what?” he said impatiently, then slurped up more beer.

  “Kill people. And then not worry about it.” I was speaking with a world war veteran, a man awarded the Bronze Star. Fourth highest award in the armed forces. It was hanging on the wall above my head.

  His platoon had run into some bad luck, had been in the wrong place at the wrong time... a not unusual occurrence in wartime, I was sure. Grandpa had grabbed his Lee Enfield sniper rifle, found scant cover, and picked off Germans one by one while his buddies were scrambling to get away. As sergeant, he had ordered them to get away.

  He took four bullets: two in his left arm, one just above his right knee, and one had clipped off his left earlobe. Two of his men had dragged him away, as he protested bitterly that he was just fine, fine, Goddammit, let go, you jackasses, I've got work to do!

  I had work to do, too.

  Meanwhile, my grandpa had finished the beer (barf... words could not describe how much I hated the taste of beer) and was holding an unopened can in his left hand. “Kill people? Izzat what you said? And then not worry about it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened, idiot?”

  I shook my head. “It's a really long story, and I come off pretty bad in it.”

  Grandpa shrugged, instantly losing interest in what brought me here, what had happened to make me ask that question. As Margaret Mitchell wrote about Scarlett O'Hara, he could not long endure any conversation that wasn't about him.

  “It was wartime,” he said at last. “They were the bad guys. It wasn't like it is now. Things were a little more black and white back then. They were killing every Jew they could find. I think those little black beanie things the men wear are pretty stupid, but it's no reason to pick 'em off like Goddamned mosquitoes.”

  I had to admit, I was surprised. Among other things, my darling maternal grandfather was a major bigot. I found it distinctly interesting that he'd fought because he saw a minority in trouble.

  He was staring out the window now, and I had the very strong impression that if I spoke to him before he'd gotten all of it out, he'd clam up
and take it to the grave.

  The secret.

  “Yup, they were doing terrible things,” he mused. “And we were fools to wait until after Pearl Harbor to kick some ass. But once we were there, we were there. We did the work, and we didn't bitch about our feelings the whole time, either. God, I hate that 'tell me how that makes you feel' touchy-​feely bullshit.”

  I nodded. I knew that, too.

  “And when my guys got in a tight spot – why, I looked out for 'em just like they'd been looking out for me. I just kept that in my mind. Keeping my guys alive and sending as many of the bad guys to Hell that I could. That's all I thought about.”

  He looked straight at me, his eyes – my eyes – green and gleaming. “And then I never thought about it again. What for? Dead's dead, honey. You don't know that by now, I wash my hands of you.”

  “Thanks for the tolerance and acceptance,” I said dryly. Thinking, there's a trick or two I could tell you about death, Grandpa. Things you never, ever dreamed of. Things that would turn your hair white, if it wasn't already.

  But of course I wouldn't.

  “What it comes down to is this, Betsy: you do what you need to, and then you haul ass out of there. Every single time.”

  “And never think of it again.”

  He nodded and popped the second Bud. “I didn't say it was an easy road. Shit, I lost plenty of my own fellas over there. I still miss Leary, that Irish fuck. But he died for a reason – a good one. Maybe the best one – kicking ass to keep the bullies out of the sandbox.” He was looking at me almost sideways, a sly look. “So whether you killed somebody or someone got killed 'cause a you – oh, I can see it all over your face, girl, aren't you my own flesh and blood? Just... never think of it again. Life's messy, honey.”

  So's death, I thought, and turned the conversation to other things.