Undead and Done (10 page)

THIRTEEN

NOT EVEN TWO MINUTES LATER . . .

“Listen up, Windup!”

“That's
Wyndham
.”

“Do I go to your mansion and insult you and criticize your process and tell you what to do?” Oh. Wait. That's actually more or less exactly what I did when we went to Cape Cod. A werewolf had died saving me—Antonia, in fact, the asshat who'd called right after my TV interview—and we'd escorted her body back to Massachusetts.

I got staked. BabyJon scared the shit out of a bunch of werewolves. I figured out how to bring Antonia back to life. Back in Minnesota, Laura led a devil-worshipper-staffed revolt. (Yeah, she's kind of always been a problem for me, now that I think about it.) Other stuff happened. Then we went home.
*

But that was then, dammit, and this was now.

“I know this is overused,” Marc commented, “but that escalated quickly.”

It sure had. Never should have let them into the Peach Parlor. Bad things almost always happen in the Peach Parlor. Starting with the fact that it was called the Peach Parlor. It was hard to take me as an authority figure in there; I was bathed in tones of flattering pastel. I looked terrific, but not especially intimidating.

The first minute was all hey, how are you doing, nice to see you again, are all your cell phones broken because we had no idea you were in town, ha-ha-ha but no big deal, always a pleasure, you guys look great and what the
fuck
do you mean, I never should have done an interview with Diana Pierce? You don't even know Diana Pierce! Diana Pierce was a consummate professional and I wasn't bad, either!

Sinclair was just sitting back and enjoying the show, still giggling to himself at how the werewolves reacted to seeing BabyJon

(“Yeow! What—what
is
that?”)

in his arms.

Meanwhile, Michael “My shit smells better than yours” Wyndham and I were eyeball to eyeball. Well, eyeball to chin. He was pretty tall. “You told me,” I reminded him, “you said just last month that you thought everything was fine and there were no problems between us.”

“Yes, and then the story went viral, you refused to deny anything, and then you as good as exposed werewolves.”

“None of that is true! Okay, two of those things are true.”

Glaring up at Michael Wyndham was like glaring up at a hawk. He had, I shit you not, golden eyes. Not brown. Not hazel. The color of old gold coins, and those strangely gorgeous peepers brought out the golden glints in his dark brown hair. He was easily a head taller, powerfully built and as fast
as he was strong. An alpha in his prime, but as impressive as he was, his wife, Jeannie, was equally intimidating. All the more so because she was human. With naturally curly hair. I mean, come on—who finds cute curly-haired blond women intimidating? She was like a tall Shirley Temple, if Shirley had been terrifying and considered a Beretta M9 an indispensable accessory. (In Jeannie's defense, that was—literally—a killer accessory.)

Also, I was trying hard not to melt at the sight of the king of the vampires holding BabyJon while answering Lara Wyndham's many, many, many whispered questions. Lara was next in line to lead the werewolves and was born fearless. She'd sidled up to my husband so she could sniff BabyJon over and pepper Sinclair with questions: “Why's a baby so intimidating? Is he supposed to smell like that? Are you supposed to not smell like anything? Oh, look, he smiled at me—he likes me!”

“What should I have said?” I asked. We'd all started off the meeting sitting down, but now Michael and I were toe-to-toe while Jeannie and Sinclair sat across from each other, and Tina and Derik sort of prowled the perimeter of the room while Lara's whispered questions (“But
why
is everybody scared of your baby? I don't want to turn my back on him but I can't figure out why. Ooooh, he needs a diaper change! Yuck!”) went on and on.

“‘Hmm? Oh, werewolves? I'm glad you asked, Diana Pierce, of course they're real! There's one living just down the block from my house.'” (This was true, by the way.) “‘And a buttload of them hang out on Cape Cod. I can draw you a map if you want.'”

Michael rubbed the bridge of his nose. I considered the “ugh, here comes the migraine” expression to be the signal of my eventual triumph.

“But I didn't do
any
of that, did I? No. I took the high road
and reminded her I was there to talk about vampires and that was that.”

He stopped rubbing his nose and looked up. “A more definitive no would have been better.”

“Thanks, Captain Toldja So. That's very helpful.”

Derik snorted and got a “whose side are you on?” glare from Michael for his trouble. Derik was Michael's second-in-command; they'd been friends all their lives. You hardly ever saw one without the other. They were like Mormons, if Mormons were apex predators.

“So, what, Michael? Huh?” I had to actively restrain the urge to kick him right in the ball of his ankle. I don't care who you are: that always stings like crazy. “Are you here to critique my interview technique or yell at me or pick a fight or all three or what? What inspired you to hop on a plane and say howdy to the Twin Cities?”

“Yes, Michael,” Sinclair replied in a voice of pure silk. Their gaze met over Lara's small dark head. Sinclair had let her hold BabyJon. And really, that was Lara right there. BabyJon freaked her out, and instead of being scared, she wanted to spend time with him and figure things out. She was more or less the embodiment of the best qualities of both parents. “What
does
bring you to my home?”

“My home”? Knock off the caveman crap,
I thought to my husband.
Don't even think about undermining me in front of these dickbags.

Check the mortgage paperwork, darling. It
is
my home.

Oh, very funny.

“What makes you think it's anything to do with you?” Michael countered.

“Besides the fact that you're in our house? Right now? Where you came straight from the airport, I'm guessing, since you all still look travel mussed?” And frankly, at least two of them
needed to brush their teeth. “I bet if I went outside and checked your rental car, it'd be full of suitcases but no room keys.”

Silence. Derik looked impressed in spite of himself, though he might have been stifling a sneeze. Our mansion was old, and dusty, no matter how often we cleaned. I zeroed in for the kill. (But not really.) “What, you got lost? You just happened to be in the neighborhood? ‘Why, Betsy, I had no idea you were here even though I've been here before.' You meant to go north to Rhode Island but took a right instead? You're throwing the lamest surprise party ever?”

“Rhode Island is to the south,” Lara—
Lara!
—pointed out. Geographically shamed by a middle schooler. In the goddamned Peach Parlor.

Michael sighed. “At the risk of alienating you—”

“Too late, bright eyes.”

“—not every werewolf visit revolves around what you've been up to.”

Well, that had to be a lie. “Yeah? Why else are you here?”

“To visit with other Pack members.” They all pronounced it like that, so you could hear the capital letter. Ugh. You'd never catch me going on and on about Vampyrs. “I have family scattered all over the Midwest.”

“And you decided the perfect time to visit them was within days of my TV interview? Come on. Do better.”

“I don't have to ‘do better,'” he snapped. He took a step forward, but I knew this game. You can't step back from a werewolf. Not even once. “I believe you're the one who owes
me
an explanation.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Didn't you tell me your half sister is causing all this trouble?”

“Yeah, she's got dad issues, and she decided to cope by trying to get me to help her prove Hell was real so everyone
would convert to Christianity, and when I wouldn't she outed vampires for spite.” Huh. I hadn't known I could compress the whole mess into one sentence.

“Good God,” Derik said, appalled.

“Right? This is what I've been putting up with.”

“No, I mean—why didn't you destroy her rebellion before it could take root and endanger your people?”

Because I'm not a hairy sociopath?
“Look, Laura and my dad are both dead to me, okay? Yes, she's a pain in my ass, but I'm not about to kill her for it. One way or the other, we'll straighten this out.” Most likely.

They didn't have to say anything, but I could feel it: total puzzlement from the werewolves.
But—the solution is so simple! Just fight to the death. Problem solved.
Yikes. Not for the first time I remembered Jeannie's warning: werewolves weren't human; they were an entirely separate species. Expecting them to behave like humans who occasionally turned into wolves was always a mistake.

“Anyway,” I said to break the silence, “Laura and my father are out of my reach now. And it's our job, mine and Sinclair's, to deal with the fallout. We're basically letting the vampire nation be dragged into the twenty-first century. I'll do my best to keep you guys out of it, like I always have. That's all I can promise.”

“Your blundering has endangered every one of my Pack members and I expect you to make amends.”

“Reconsider your tone, Michael.”

Whoa. When had Sinclair stood? And crossed the room so he was standing right next to me? Nobody had seen a thing.

“That's a fair request,” Jeannie said quietly, and hey! How'd she get BabyJon? Oh, right. Because Lara had moved when Sinclair did, and now she was standing next to her dad, staring at my husband. Hopefully Jeannie had taken BabyJon as
opposed to Lara pitching him at her like a basketball from half-court. “We're in their home. Uninvited.”

“Yeah, but in Michael's defense, Betsy's really annoying,” Derik drawled. Marc made a really weird sound, and I realized he was trying to turn a laugh into a cough. Tina and Sinclair remained like stones, though. Gorgeous, humorless stones. Lara stood to her dad's right, small hands curled into claws. Waiting. Whatever he did, she'd back him. She wouldn't even think about it. She was the scariest, cutest middle schooler in the history of middle schoolers. Well, maybe not
the
scariest. Madonna was probably pretty intimidating when she was a kid.

“Okay, maybe everybody take a breath,” Marc suggested, which was hilarious coming from a zombie soothing vampires. “Not to be out of line here or anything, Michael, but I think maybe you forgot how unnerving vampires are—you can't smell them, right? Which makes you nuts?”

“That's true,” Jeannie replied, amused, “but it's considered rude to point that out.”

“Well, that's fair, and I don't mean to offend, but I think it's left you short-tempered. And the media zoo has left
us
short-tempered. Nobody's having a particularly good week. I think we all need a nap.”

“Not me,” Lara whispered to her father. “I slept on the plane.”

“We're not too keen on how you smell, either,” Derik Gardner pointed out. “If you don't mind my asking, what are you?”

“It's a long story,” Marc hedged.

“And he comes off really dead in it,” I added. So think
that
over, you hairy chumps. “But he's fine now.” More than fine, according to Will Mason. Who was probably still cowering in the kitchen with my mom. Jessica, after a quick greeting, hadn't lingered. She was going to be mega-pissed she'd missed this.

“So how about you guys head on out and find somewhere
to sleep and have a good meal and everybody can get some rest and get their heads straight and we can all meet up again tomorrow. Or whenever.”

Michael arched a dark golden eyebrow. “We?”

“If you're meeting in my home, yes,” Marc replied in a pleasant, even tone. “I'm for Team Betsy. Always have been.”

I made a mental note: get
Team Betsy
T-shirts made. Like, yesterday. In every color and every size.

“That's good advice,” Jeannie said. “Don't you think? Michael?”

He let out a breath. “Yes. It is. I'd like to talk about this later, if—if you can accommodate me.” He almost bit the phrase out; you could see he was practically chewing on the words. I knew what it cost him to stay polite.

“Of course. You're always welcome here,” I replied, and it was almost the truth. “And it really
is
nice to see you again, no bullshit. All of you.” To Lara: “What are you, a junior now?”

“No.” She was a vicious werewolf cub, but she loved being mistaken for older like any kid. She smiled and looked down, and I realized with a start she was dropping eye contact for a moment to be courteous, something her grown-ass dad hadn't been able to do. Have I mentioned I friggin' love this kid?

“So we'll see you later?” I asked, and two minutes later they were pulling out of our driveway, heroically resisting the urge to plow over some reporters on the way.

“Okay, well. That wasn't so bad.” And I was right. Our next meeting was going to be much, much worse. Like, call-an-ambulance-and-then-a-lawyer worse. I'm really glad I didn't know that then.

FOURTEEN

Cathie and the Ant were waiting for us in my office in Hell,
which was exactly as alarming as it sounded.

“Welcome back!” my stepmother said with a big too-much-lipstick smile, and I thought I'd known fear before? Any fear I'd known in the past faded to mere concern as I watched my stepmother projecting warmth. Bonehomie? Is that the word? She was just spewing bonehomey everywhere.

“Thanks,” I replied, already anticipating the body blow. Something horrible was bound to be coming. Then I real-ized . . .

“So, Marc. How's your new friend?”

. . . she wasn't talking to me.
Thank you, Jesus. I don't deserve it, but you did me a solid. Never hesitate to call in that favor. Love, Betsy.
(My prayers were mostly like notes between pals. If Jesus came here, we'd hang out. We'd go fishing, after I got him some decent footgear.)

“My new friend?” Marc's expression didn't change, though he raised his eyebrows.

“It's Will, isn't it?” This from Cathie, whose efforts to squash her natural bitchiness were probably giving her abdominal cramps. “The orphan boy you're into?”

“He's in his twenties,” Marc said mildly. “I don't know that he identifies as an orphan boy.”

“Well, you're going to reschedule your date, right? You're not going to let your Hell duties impact your love life. Right? Marc? You deserve a social life.”

“Or you're a thorough professional and wouldn't dream of letting your love life impact your Hell duties. Right?”

“Yeah, I'm already sick of this,” was his (wise) reply, and he shooed them away like ill-tempered ducks. In a few seconds we were the only ones in the office.

“The reason I'm here—” he began.

“I know, I appreciate the support.”

“Uh. Yeah, that. I'm definitely all about the support. And also, you can find anyone in Hell, right?”

“If I know their name.” One of the many dumb arbitrary rules. I careened from godlike powers (teleporting in and out when I liked) to rodeo clown (I tried to make it rain marshmallows, and it rained maple syrup instead and, oh my God, the screams). The only person who would have been any real help was banished after I beat the ever-lovin' crap out of her. “Who'd you have in mind?”

“David Bowie.”

“The guy who invented hunting knives?”

Marc's mouth popped open. “Okay, even for you, that—”

“Mmph.”

“Oh, you bitch, don't tease.”

“Can't help it.” I giggled. “Your face! Like you wanted to hug me, then hit me. Or hit me, then hug me.”

“Those two options are always on the table. So: is he here?”

“I want David Bowie.” I should start keeping a list: “Demands I Never Thought I'd Make in Hell.”

We waited.

Nothing.

“Okay, great. Great! I think that's great.” His smile faded. “Okay, I'm now a little bummed I won't get to meet him, but it
is
good knowing he's not burning in a lake of fire somewhere. Thanks for checking.”

“Sure. Should have thought of it myself. But it's just one more arbitrary rule that makes no sense around here.”

He sighed at the ceiling. “Oh, here we go.”

“I mean—take Antonia, for example.”

Marc made a noise like he was chomping on lemon rind. “Uggghhhyecchhh, why?”

“Not my stepmother. The other Antonia, the werewolf.”

“I stand by my question.”

“Well, that's fair.” I slumped back in my chair—the only chair in Hell that was comfortable, because why the Hell should
I
have to suffer along with everyone else? “So, she died saving me. Took bullets for me.”

“Yep. It was gross. Her brains were everywhere.”

“You're a doctor; you can't use words like
gross
to describe medical conditions.”

“She presented with multiple GSWs resulting in penetrating brain injuries including but not limited to brain parenchyma seepage from her skull and multiple intracranial fragments—”

“Never mind, stick with
gross
. Anyway, we escorted her body to Massachusetts and they had a funeral and buried her.”

Marc plopped down in the chair opposite my desk, winced, tried to get comfortable, gave up. “Yeah, just because I didn't go to the Cape with you guys doesn't mean you didn't tell me all about it when you got home. I know all this.”

“Shut up, this is my process.” I swiveled in my chair and swung my legs up on my desk, and reminded myself that it would be sandal season soon enough. See ya next winter, red leather midheel Gucci loafers. Your time is almost up. “So fast-forward a few months, I'm in Hell by accident.” Ah, the golden days when I thought just visiting Hell was the worst thing to happen to me. “And there she is: Antonia. And what with one thing and another, I bring her back to the real world. And so she's alive again.”

“Right. Which is troubling you.”

“Yes.”

“Because it's weird.”

“So very, very weird. I mean, she's alive now. She's got a body, a physical body, and she can die again. And if we went to Massachusetts and bought shovels and found her grave and dug it up—”

“If you're angling for company during this ghastly-sounding field trip, I'm busy. For years and years.”

“—her dead body would be in there! So what the
fuck
?”

“It's confusing.”

“Yes.”

“Doesn't make much sense from any scientific standpoint you'd care to name.”

“Right.” I knew talking to a scientist about this was the right move. Hooray, physicians!
*

Marc leaned forward. “Want to know why?”

“Yes.”

“This isn't science.”

“Argh!” I kicked out, frustrated, and there was a quick paper blizzard.

“You just booted over a ton of manila folders,” Marc observed. “Do you even know what they're all for?”

“Of course not.” Yes, Hell had manila folders. And not a single one of them was ever the right size for whatever project required the use of manila folders. Diabolical, really. “I'm so sick of that nonanswer.”

“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

“And I'm not too fond of that one, either.”

“Arthur C. Clarke said that.”

“I know,” I lied. Was he the guy who wrote about the Knights of the Round Table?

Marc's smirk told me he knew I was talking out of my butt. “It's from
Profiles of the Future
. And it means exactly what you'd think it means: no matter how smart you are, some things are so far beyond our grasp we'll never understand them.” This from a guy who held two jobs all through undergrad and medical school, never missed a party, usually showed up only on test days, and still graduated with a GPA of 3.6.
Sure, Marc. Tell me about the things that are beyond your grasp. I guarantee I've got more of them.
“If you were to go back in time with a flashlight—”

“Oooh, oooh, I know this one! I've done that!”
*

“—and showed it to a bunch of people at, say, the court of Henry VIII, and tried to explain batteries, they wouldn't get it. Does that make them stupid, or you a genius?”

“No,” I said slowly. “And no.” Unfortunately.

“I think it's like that with paranormal science.”

“That's not a thing.” Or at least it shouldn't be.

“Of course it's a thing; you come face-to-face with it pretty
much every day. I mean, there are actual, scientific reasons why the Wyndhams change form once a month. It should be impossible, right? Well, for hundreds of thousands, it's not. It's obviously a perfectly normal function of their biology . . . that sounds impossible to anyone who isn't a werewolf. Can we explain it? Nope. Is it magic? Nope.”

“So . . . what?” I swung my legs down so both feet were on the floor and swiveled in my chair. It was hard to sit still and have this conversation at the same time. I wanted to pace. And throw things. And kick the things I threw. Then pace more. “Keep blindly plunging ahead and hope for the best?”

“I'm pretty sure that's your family motto.”

I laughed. “No, that's not it. Would you believe it's ‘Salvation from the Cross'?”

“Wow.” His green eyes went wide. “Whatever you do, don't read anything into that, O Chosen One of the Vampyrs.”

“Ugh, don't pronounce it like that. There's no
y
in vampires.”

“Mmm.” I got a long stare, and then he said, “You're nervous about sending Jennifer back today.”

“Guilty.” Cindy had fulfilled her sworn buddy duties and talked Jennifer Palmer into agreeing to go back to the real world and make amends. Or just wore her out with every cheer she could think of until Jennifer begged her to stop. Either way: today was the day!

“You're doing the right thing,” he added.

“You hope.”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “If it doesn't work, it doesn't work. But it's worth trying. Hell's still in the business of punishing sinners. We've just also instituted a parole program.”

“A mere trifle of a change!” I cried in a plummy British accent.

“Raw-ther. Hardly noticeable, dah-ling.”

“And also, worth doing just because the original Satan hated the idea so much.”
*

“Like you needed another excuse?” He squirmed in his seat. “Dammit! Change this seat into something that doesn't make my lower back feel like it's on fire!”

I pointed. Smirked. “Be more comfortable.” And the resulting bright purple beanbag chair, a good five feet in diameter, almost swallowed him on the spot.

“Jesus! I—c'mon, help me—don't just sit there and laugh—oof!—help me out of this thing! Oh, you awful bitch, I hate you so much right now!”

Ever laugh so hard your face hurts for five minutes afterward? Yep.

“Fine, fine, you big baby.” I gestured and the beanbag chair sort of barfed Marc out. He wasn't free, exactly, but he wasn't being swallowed so much. The thrashing went on, though. “Let's get it over with. I want Jennifer Palmer.”

“—don't even know how I'd do it.” Jennifer cut herself off, glanced around the office, gave us both a tentative smile. “Hi, uh, Betsy. Hi, Marc. Are you okay?”

“Hi, Jennifer.”

“I'm very fucking far from okay.” Marc managed to wrench himself free, then offered his hand to Jennifer. She blinked at it, then tentatively shook it. “Never tell anyone what just happened here. And good luck. Hopefully we'll never meet again.”

“Thanks.”

I looked up at her. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Going anyway?”

“Yeah.”

I was on my feet by then, too. “Why?”

“Well.” She spoke slowly, clearly choosing her words with care, a trick I should get around to mastering. “If it's a test of my obedience, to show I can obey. If it's a trick, to show I'm a good sport. If it's real, I owe them. The ones I left holding the bag.”

“Good enough. C'mere, give me your hand.” She tentatively stepped forward, and I took her small hand, which she offered with all the enthusiasm she'd offer a grizzly. “We're gonna take a trip. And hopefully, never meet again.”

She licked her lips. “Okay. But if I screw this up, if I can't make it right, please remember that I didn't fight you. That I was willing to go. For when you see me again, and have to figure out my new punishment.”

“That's the spirit.” And away we went.