Undead and Unwelcome (8 page)

Betsy has enough on her plate these days. And it wasn’t like Laura had killed anybody.
In

fact, the way she handled it was nothing short of hilarious. She—
Wait. She’s calling me

from the hallway. More later, dude.

When I next opened my eyes, it was, according to the grandfather clock bonging away at

the other end of our suite, four o’clock. Our bedroom was utterly gloomy, thanks to all

the heavy curtains, so I stretched and sat up, swung my legs over the bed, and thought

about what to do. Sinclair was still—ha, ha—dead to the world beside me. He was on his

side, one arm flung out, palm up. His normally pin-neat hair was a ruffled dark mass; his

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) lips were slightly parted. I watched his chest for a long time . . . three minutes, almost. I

think it rose once. But he felt like living flesh; he was warm (we’re speaking comparably,

of course). He wasn’t a corpse, he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t alive, either. Undead. Stupid

word, I’ve always hated that word. This was the part of every day when I deeply pitied my

husband, and I would never tell him. Sinclair needed me for several things—pity wasn’t

one of them. He didn’t have to sleep all day, and he could stay awake when the sun came

up (unlike yours truly, who would drop like a puppet with her strings cut as soon as it was

dawn) but he could never, ever go out into the sun. I, however, could. So I got to my feet

and checked on BabyJon, who we’d set up in the small sitting room. And by the way? The

guy who invented the port-a-crib? A genius of Jonas Salk proportions. Anyway, he was in

his crib, flat on his back with his little arms in the “this is the police, put your hands up”

position. If he grew up to be anything like the Ant, he couldn’t practice that position soon

enough. I couldn’t help but smile when I looked at him. Don’t get me wrong, it was

unfortunate that my father and his wife died. But BabyJon was mine, now. Forever. Best

of all, he was adjusting to the new sleeping schedule. After all, I can’t have a kid running

around during the day when I sleep. No, BabyJon was officially on graveyard shift now,

and for a long time to come. I wondered what I would tell him when he was older.
“Mom,

why is there an unconscious man stuffed in the closet?”
“Nothing to worry about, dear,

Mommy just wanted a snack.”
Hmm. Better rethink that one. Later. Besides, since he’d be

growing up with us, he’d probably think it’s normal for parents to stay up all night and

never eat solid food. Or age. Or poop. A problem for another time, so I popped into the

bathroom, which was more or less unnecessary, but old habits, right? Sometime during

our late-night chat with the Wyndhams, a castle employee had unpacked our clothes and

stocked the bathroom. Good stuff, too—Aveda products. Feeling minty fresh, I left the

bathroom, and pulled on brown velvet leggings and a long-sleeved blue flannel shirt. I was

always cold, and had long since donated all my tank tops to Goodwill. I slipped into my

Cole Haan Penny Air Loafers and was ready to face the day. What was left of it, anyway. I

had to walk through the rest of the suite, and after a second I realized that our suite was

on the west side of the castle. Okay, mansion—really huge, amazing mansion. That

looked, to my Midwestern eyes, awfully like a castle. Someone was being pretty

thoughtful. Never let it be said that werewolves weren’t polite hosts—I only had to look

around our guest suite to see that. But I drew all the curtains anyway, just to be on the

safe side. I didn’t want to take the smallest chance that Sinclair might get burned. The sun

wouldn’t go down for another four hours or so. I stepped out into the hallway, pulled the

door closed, and nearly fell over Jessica, who was all but lurking in the doorway of the

suite directly across from ours. “You know, they did let you have that room,” I said. “In

fact, I think they’re assuming you’ll use it, as opposed to lingering in strange hallways.”

She responded to me with, “Girl, I am bored outta my tits.” “Can we have one cross-

country quest without talking about your tits?” Her pretty dark eyes went narrow and

thoughtful, and she caressed her cheek with a long fingernail colored jack-o’-lantern

orange. After a thoughtful pause, she shook her head. “I don’t see how.” “I figured.” I

scanned the hallway and listened hard: it was as empty as it looked. “Want to find the

kitchen? Maybe whip up a—” “If I have to look at another smoothie this month, I’m going

to barf in one of your Beverly Feldmans.” “And face a terrible, prolonged death.” We fell

in step and, when we reached the main staircase, I pointed in the direction of the kitchen—

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) or whatever room smelled like spices, meat, and fresh vegetables. “How can you be bored

in the middle of a Pack of werewolves?” “Easy. They’re not talking to me. The ones I

bump into are soooo polite—bathroom’s right there, the east wing’s over there, one of the

indoor pools is through there, the weight room is over there—but I’m a cipher here.”

Jessica, well used to my blank expression, correctly interpreted it as “I am unfamiliar with

that word; please explain” and added, “I’m a nobody. A nothing. A zero. This is about

vampires and werewolves, which, thank God, I’m neither. No offense.” “Who could be

offended by that?” I muttered, jumping down the last four steps. “That way. Then a right.

So, they’ve been nice to you at least?” “Sure.” “Good. Listen, I think it’s really good that

you’re here—” “You’re the worst liar in the galaxy.” “Shut up. Anyway, I sort of forced

BabyJon on Sinclair—” “This I already knew. The entire street knew,” she added

thoughtfully. “—because we’re his parents now and we have to learn how to be a family—

” “Uh-huh, yup. Getting to something I
don’t
know anytime soon?” “—but I can’t watch

him every minute I’m here.” “I don’t mind watching him—much—but you know he’ll only

be cute and cuddly with you. With me . . .” She sighed. “With everybody else, it’s colic

city.” “Sorry, Jess. I can’t help that. But I appreciate you watching out for him for me.”

She waved it away, and obediently turned left when I pointed. We were now in a slightly

narrower hallway, on hardwood floors this time, no carpet. The smell of food was
very

strong. “At least you got the boy trained. Sleeps half the day
and
half the night.” “He’s

really very sweet,” I whined. Jessica snorted and straight-armed the swinging door into the

kitchen. Like everything, the Wyndham kitchen made mine look like a dining nook. At

least four big tables—the kind you could chop anything on—with long legs. Another big

table, marble-topped, probably for baking. Three fridges. Another door, which led to

industrial-sized freezers. I could smell the Freon. There were huge windows—one

overlooking a kitchen garden—on every wall. The windows on the opposite wall

overlooked the Atlantic. “I could get used to this,” Jessica commented. “So buy

something just like it. You’ve probably got enough money in the sofa cushions for a down

payment.” Jessica shrugged and went to the nearest fridge while I slid onto a bar stool. “I

like the place in St. Paul.” I nodded. Shoot, before the mansion, she’d lived in an ordinary

house in the suburbs. She had never lived rich, dressed rich, ate rich, or looked rich. It was

one of her many charms. “So you’re not, um, hungry, are you?” Jessica had extracted an

apple and a Diet Coke. Wait’ll I ratted her out to Marc! He considered diet pop one step

up from muriatic acid, whatever the hell that was. “Naw. Sinclair and I snacked on each

other for a while last night. I’m good for a few days.” “Good to know. If you go nuts and

accidentally chew on one of the locals—” “Right, I get the picture, and
duh
, like I haven’t

thought of that. How dumb do you think I am?” Her answer was muffled in the loud

crunch as she went to work on the apple . . . probably just as well. “So, that Jeannie seems

nice,” Jessica said, masticating slowly. “Shhhh,” I said, putting a finger to my lips. Jessica

gnawed and crunched and all but growled at her McIntosh for a good minute, when the

doors swung inward (werewolves must just
know
if someone’s on the other side; probably

because they could smell them) and in walked Jeannie, carrying a toddler, and behind her,

Lara. “Hello,” Jeannie said. The toddler, a boy with his mother’s wild blond curls and blue

eyes, waved a chubby hand in our general direction. “Sleep all right?” “Like the dead,” I

said cheerfully. Jeannie rolled her eyes at me in a remarkable imitation of Jessica. She

carefully set the toddler down in a high chair, strapped him in, then started rooting around

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) for toddler food. “Mmmmph gmmmph mmmm nughump mph,” Jessica commented, tiny

pieces of apple flying like shrapnel. “She didn’t know you had another kid.” Or forgot

Jeannie had another kid . . . she’d been a little out of it when the Wyndhams visited us the

last time. Chemo really plays havoc with your memory. “This? This is Sean. And you

remember Lara, Betsy.” “Hullo,” the tiny werewolf said as she opened the fridge, pulling

out a small Tupperware bowl. She popped the lid, and— “Don’t you
dare
,” Jeannie said

severely, pretending not to hear the delicate sound of Jessica’s gagging. “You have one of

the chefs cook that hamburger, or ask me to.” “But it tastes better when it’s raw,” Lara

the Weird whined. “You heard what I said.” Jeannie plunked a Lunchable in front of her

son, who carefully began dismantling it and eating. “But I
want
to eat a raw hamburger.”

Jessica raised her eyebrows at me while Lara placed her teeny hands on her teeny hips and

glared up at her mother. “Tough nuts,” Jeannie replied with admirable unconcern. “And

that locked gaze might work with your father and the others, but it doesn’t do diddly to

me. So: Cooked hamburger? Or no hamburger?” “No hamburger.” “Ah, starving yourself

to spite the woman who gave you life.” Jeannie leaned against the counter and put a hand

over her eyes. “Ah, ‘how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.’ ”

“Mommy Shakes,” Sean said, carefully picking up a pepperoni slice and popping it into his

mouth. “Yes, that’s right, Mommy likes to quote Shake-speare.” Lara sighed. “Since I’m

not going to eat my snack, can I go to the playground?” “Lara, I’m sorry, but I can’t get

away right now—your father and I have some stuff to talk about.” Her gaze slid to me,

but I don’t think she was aware of it. “I’ll take her,” I volunteered. “I’d like to get

outside.” “Oh. Well. That’s very nice, Betsy, but you’re not really used to werewolves,

y’see, and—” “Not used to—Hello? I lived with one of them?” Jeannie gave me a long,

speculative look, then beckoned with one finger. “Step over here with me for a moment.

Would you?” Jessica shot me her you’d-better-tell-me-everything-later expression and

added, “I’ll keep an eye on your boy for you, Jeannie.” “That’s great, Jessica. If he wants

another Lunchable—” “And he will,” Lara piped up. “—they’re on the bottom shelf in the

fridge to your right. So saying, she spun on her heel and walked out through a different

door, one I hadn’t even spotted until Jeannie moved toward it. I guess I was going back

down the rabbit hole. Me and Alice.

I’ll trust you with my daughter,” Jeannie began the moment she’d started up four washing

machines at once. The mysterious door had led to the mysterious Laundromat. The

Wyndhams had their own Laundromat! Unreal. Anyway, she got a bunch of the machines

going and I was puzzling over that when I suddenly realized: she didn’t want Lara to

overhear. Or anybody close by to overhear. “I’m doing this,” she continued, “because I

know you liked Antonia and wouldn’t have seen her dead. I’m also doing this because

Lara can take care of herself. So if you turn evil and try to bite her or hurt her in any way,

don’t be surprised if it’s your head bouncing across the playground.” “That’s, um, sweet.

You must be very proud.” “But I need you to remember this: a werewolf cub is not a

human child. They’re different.” “Okay.” “They’re faster. Stronger. Even crueler. She

looks like a little girl to you, but you must never forget—she is her father’s daughter, the

man who had to kill over twenty-five werewolves to take the Pack. Do you understand?” I

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) just stared at her while all around us washing machines went
shhh-thump, shhh-thump,

shhh-thmmp
. I’d expected the standard warning: if you bite my kid, I’ll hunt you down

and shoot you dead. But it wasn’t like that. Jeannie wasn’t scared for Lara. She was

scared for
me
. “I told you something like this before, but you had a lot going on at the

time. This time I’ve got your full attention. Right?” “Right, absolutely, you bet.” “As long

as we understand each other.” “Oh, we totally do,” I assured her. “All right, then.” “All