Undead and Done (11 page)

FIFTEEN

“I'm not complaining—”

“Every time you say that, it's a lie,” Marc said. “Every. Time.”

“—but what's happening?”

It was two o'clock in the morning and for some reason, we were in our basement. The creepy, gigantic, horrible, right-out-of-every-horror-movie-ever basement. It wasn't so much the hour as the fact that, again: basement. I'd been living here for years and could count on both hands how often I'd been down here. And frankly, I was annoyed I needed both.

Sinclair had strolled to the far end while Tina, Marc, and I tripped along in his wake. His dark suit was impeccable and, even more annoying, didn't look out of place. Sinclair could wear a suit anywhere.
Anywhere.
Sometimes I forgot he started out as a farm boy who never wore shoes once the snow was gone for the year.

“The Wyndhams have requested a follow-up, Elizabeth.”

“Basement.”

“And then, in what I cannot imagine is a coincidence—”

“Basement?”

“The sensors tripped.”

“But why are we in the basement?”

“The ones at the dock.”

“So maybe we should be at the dock? And not the basement? Also, what dock? The biggest river in the universe is, what? Two miles from here? That same river comes with a zillion docks.”

“The Mississippi isn't even the biggest river on this planet.”

“It's still a bigass river, Marc! Why aren't we out freezing our asses on it, instead of freezing our asses down here?” A measure of my consuming basement hatred: I'd rather be on the Mississippi River in early spring in total darkness for who knew how long, doing who knew what, than be in our basement.

DARLING.

“Ow!” I rubbed my temple. Sinclair's exasperated thought had ripped through my brain like a fishhook.

“And obviously,” he continued out loud, “the Wyndhams are coming through the tunnel, the entrance and exit of which, you'll recall, is in our basement.”

“None of that sounds right.”

The basement. The tunnel. Because there weren't enough clichés in life, ours was a basement the psycho from
Silence of the Lambs
would envy and it came with a secret tunnel leading to a moonlit dock on the river. Because of course it did.

We'd had to use it only once, thank God, because at the time we were running to keep ahead of the angry vampires on their way to kill me.

SIXTEEN

ELIZABETH!

“What?”

“Stop doing exposition in your head,” Sinclair ordered out loud.

“I wasn't!” When Marc snickered and Tina bit her lip so she wouldn't laugh, I corrected myself. “Well, maybe a little. Mostly I was reminding myself why I hate our basement.”

“You hate our basement?” Marc asked, wide-eyed. “Really? Gosh, I had no idea. I don't think you ever mentioned it.”

“Marc.”

“Not once.”

“Marc.”

“Not even one time.”

“Fine, I get it, I'll try to bitch less about the basement, okay?” I snapped. “I can't help hating it down here.”

“Given the many times it has saved our lives, that is idiotic,” my husband snapped back. Touch-
y
. I decided to let it go. Stressful week for everyone, and marriage to me isn't all
sunshine all the time. Marriage to me was, in fact, occasionally typhoonesque, with a side order of shrill. Besides, I'd much rather passively-aggressively punish him for the next several days. Those were the ways of my love.

“My king, I am sure the Wyndhams won't—”

“Hush.”

Tina hushed. Marc gave her a ‘you gonna just let that one go?' look and she shrugged. I, in a moment of rare wisdom (or laziness), decided to keep my mouth shut.

He had his head down and every line in his body was tense as he listened. “They're coming,” he said quietly. “Four at l— No. Five. That's . . . odd.”

“How'd they even know about this tunnel?” I whispered. Then, duh, it hit me. “Dumb question. Antonia the Werewolf would have told him.” She'd lived with us for a bit.
*
And I couldn't even get mad at her for it. Her link to Michael was through blood and family; of course she would tell him everything. I was just her landlord for a few months. A landlord who didn't charge rent. A landlord plagued with werewolf freeloaders. A landlord with the best shoe collection you've ever seen. “Though why they'd want to . . .” I stopped myself.

Duh, again. They
didn't
want to. They didn't want to drive through the media and knock on our front door in front of God and everybody. They wanted to come to us in a way where no one would see them. And maybe in a way they hoped
we
wouldn't see them, because the sensors had gone up
after
Antonia had been killed. She couldn't have told Michael about them, so maybe the werewolves didn't know they'd activated them.

That didn't bode well.

“At least they tripped 'em so we got a little warning,” Marc murmured.

“Well, that and the phone call.” It had been a weird call, though. Lara, of all people. I'm not one to tell people how to raise their werewolf cubs, but what's a kid doing up at that hour? After a three-hour flight halfway across the country? Tsk, tsk. You'd never catch BabyJon running around in the dead of night calling vampires and sneaking into tunnels. He'd have to get a lot better at walking first. And maybe grow more teeth. And learn how to use a potty.

And of course we had sensors, and cameras, and bugs tripped by movement, and more cameras. The best money could buy, in fact, so sleek and high-tech I forgot about them most of the time, and you'd better believe they were tough to spot. They'd been in place before my sister blabbed about vampires but after we started putting our address in the vampire newsletter.

Sure, Sinclair and I had a basic “You got a beef? Come and tell us to our faces, jerkweeds” philosophy, but that doesn't mean we didn't take precautions. There were sensors all over, and one of the parlors had recently been converted to a security room; it was positively
stuffed
with monitors. Tina and Marc spent a weird amount of time in there. I suspected strong voyeuristic streaks in both of them, the pervs.

We could all hear the footsteps approaching—well, maybe not Marc. Zombies didn't have enhanced senses. He was just really good at healing from horrific injuries now. He'd broken his leg hauling Will Mason's narrow ass out of the path of a truck a few weeks ago, and he was fine by the weekend. It's why Will had such a crush, I think. Marc was gorgeous
and
smart
and
funny
and
loyal
and
brave
and
he was now an unkillable paranormal doctor who hung out with vampires and werewolves and served on a committee in Hell. Who wouldn't
have a crush? Poor Will: he never had a chance. Put it this way: I saw someone getting hurt in all this, and it wasn't Marc.

But Marc had tipped his head, listening, so we could all hear the steps now, and murmured voices, one high, two low. There was a click, and then the wall that looked like unmovable cement slid back. Not like the movies, either, all rumbly and slow. The cement wall that wasn't slid back without a sound, in just a couple of seconds.

So what now? A pissed-off werewolf? A vampire who felt betrayed? Both? Ugh, I really didn't want the werewolves teaming up with all the vampires who were super pissed at me right now. That could get messy. And inconvenient. And it would definitely cut into my Hell time. So, it wasn't
all
bad.

Or worse: an enterprising reporter. Yeah, don't worry, media, the paranormals lurking in the basement definitely aren't up to anything sinister. Oh, this? This is our secret tunnel leading to the river, which we use in darkest night— What, you don't have one?

Someone stumbled through the passage like they'd been given a shove from behind, and I caught the scent for the first time and nearly shrieked.

It wasn't a werewolf out to get me because I sucked at PR. It wasn't a vampire out to get me because he felt I'd exposed him to the world. It wasn't the media.

It was so much worse.

“Dad?”

SEVENTEEN

You know how dogs like to fetch ducks and geese, and cats
like to bring dead birds and mice to people? This was a zillion billion times worse, and I say that with a complete lack of hyperbole.

Lara had somehow tracked down my dad, grabbed him, and hauled him back to Derik. (I cannot even fathom how this happened. Someone should look into the schools on Cape Cod, because they're teaching some strange and cool stuff.)

Jeannie and Michael, like all parents staying in a nice hotel (the Saint Paul Hotel!) with an unexpected free evening, had been indulging in private time. (The Ordway Suite! Lucky jerks.) And Derik, formidable in a fight and never,
ever
one to mess with, was a great big blond marshmallow who would have killed or died for his best friend's kid. Luckily he didn't have to kill or die, just cover for her. He helped Lara bring my dad through the tunnel, and Michael and Jeannie weren't far behind them. And at the crucial moment, they basically all ended up in our terrible basement.

So much shouting.

“What have I said about running off without permission to trespass, break and enter, and then commit assault with a dash of kidnapping?”

“Leave a note,” the feral child replied.

“Leave a damned note.”
Jeannie was practically breathing fire. Never had curly blond hair been more intimidating. “And did you?”

Glumly: “No.”

“What?”

“No, Mom, I did not leave a note.”

I blinked. That's not how I thought the lecture would go. “Wait. What?”

“If Derik hadn't texted us, we still wouldn't know where you were!”

Lara flashed a golden glare at Derik:
traitor
.

Sinclair had been standing off to the side, hands behind his back, looking down at Lara.

(We were, of course, up in the Peach Parlor, because my life. The arguing only
started
in the basement.)

“May I address Miss Wyndham?” he asked politely.

“If
address
means
smack
,” Jeannie replied, arms folded across her chest, “then yes.” To Lara: “Thank heavens you didn't cross state lines. Then it'd be federal kidnapping instead of ordinary, run-of-the-mill kidnapping.”

Yeah. Thank goodness for that.

Sinclair inclined his head in a sort of nod/bow to Lara, who was standing beside one of the couches, eyes on the carpet, the blush creeping up her neck to stain her cheeks. “Why have you done this, Miss Wyndham?”

She looked up, surprised. Probably figured he'd do the yelling thing. “You don't— I mean, you can call me Lara,” she said shyly.

“Thank you. I am Sinclair. Why did you do this?”

“So B—so the queen of the vampires could clean her own house.”

“Boy, have
you
got the wrong queen.” I had no idea where we kept the brooms. If we even had brooms. Most of the house was carpet. I
think
we kept a vacuum in the mudroom closet, but that was more for the messes Fur and Burr delighted in.

“Clean her house?” Sinclair asked.

A low mutter from Derik. “Ohhhh boy . . .”

“After we left here and were driving to the hotel, Mom and Dad were saying you had to clean your own house and nothing could be fixed until you did. Nothing! And I asked what that meant and Dad said that meant Betsy had to track and punish her dad and her sister and if she couldn't, nothing would be fixed.”

“That's, ah”—Michael coughed into his fist—“not exactly what I said.”

“And you interpreted that to mean my queen was
unable
to ‘clean house'?”

“Uh-huh.” Earnest now, looking up at Sinclair, feet together, hands clasped behind her back like a kid competing in a spelling bee. K-I-D-N-A-P-P-I-N-G. F-E-L-O-N-Y. She had dressed in dark gray jeans and a dark blue, long-sleeved turtleneck for her evening of lawbreaking. Her hair was pulled back, showing her pretty, pointed face. She was like a golden-eyed fox. With a ponytail. “She said she couldn't get them.”

“I did?”

“So I figured,
I'd
get them.”

I shook my head. “That's not—I said they were out of my reach.” Meaning things had gone too far between my dad and Laura and me. Meaning we couldn't chalk it up to a misunderstanding like we might have been able to do even a year
ago. They did what they did specifically to hurt me. And I had cut them out of my life for that.

But I could see how a child would take that literally: that they were physically beyond my reach. And so I was unable to get my hands on them. And if the child in question has a keen nose, and an unusual mind-set . . . actually, gotta give it to her, the whole caper was pretty ballsy.

She was still earnestly explaining herself. “Sinclair, your queen said it was her job and your job to deal with her family. And my dad said nobody could go home until things got fixed. So I thought—”

“Produce the family, step back while Betsy does her bit, everything gets resolved, you and your family get to go home,” Marc said.

The corner of Tina's mouth quirked into a half smile. “There have been worse plans.” Unspoken:
some hatched in this very room.

I glanced at my husband and, even if I hadn't known what he was thinking, I'd have known what he was thinking.

I know that look. You're already fantasizing about having your very own werewolf hitman. Hitgirl.

You must admit, she is an extraordinary child. She'll be an outstanding ally.

“Excuse me.”

Jeannie was now in classic mom pose: hands on hips, scowl on face. “Lara, running off on your own is never acceptable.”

“Excuse me?”

“I'm sorry, Mom.” She certainly looked sorry. Look at that lower lip starting to quiver! “It's just you said that you and Dad were not to be disturbed; you said the three Bs were in effect.”

Even as I tried to figure that out, Jeannie elaborated: “Don't bother us unless it's about blood, barf, or burns.”

“Nifty.” I made a mental note to implement that when
BabyJon got bigger. The three Bs and also, a few Ps and Zs. Maybe a Code Blue if it was anything shoe-related. We could do drills!

Jeannie, like all good moms, appeared unmoved. They key word being
appeared
, because let's be honest: you knew she was as proud as she was exasperated. A wimp who always does what she's told isn't much of a leader. But this! Michael could drop dead tomorrow and I'd be pretty confident the Wyndhams wouldn't have anything to worry about. “You still knew it was wrong, and there will be consequences. Starting with your apologies.”

“Excuse me!”

I rounded on him. “
What
, Dad?” My father had been huddled in the easy chair by the window, as far away from the front door as he could get. We'd had them all come upstairs, and nobody had wanted a drink, and I wasn't sure if Dad was sitting over there by choice or if I'd subconsciously herded him into the corner. My subconscious was a murky wasteland, so anything was possible.

“Are you going to call off your pets and let me the hell out of here?”

I turned to Michael so fast I almost fell over. “He didn't mean you guys. My dad did not suggest or imply or infer or intimate or in any way mean that I think you guys are my pets.”

For the first time, Michael smiled, which took years off his face. “It's fine. I know all about embarrassing relatives.”

Because my father was an idiot who never, ever learned, he added, “And you'd better know I'm going straight to the police!”

“Oh, well, we should keep you our prisoner forever, then,” Tina said with such indifference to his fate, my dad went pale. And he was normally pretty pale—golf season was well over a month away and that was about the only time he was outside.

“Relax,” I told him. “Obviously we aren't going to keep you a prisoner forever. Ugh, who could stand it? But come on—telling us you're gonna run to the cops? How does that get you what you want?”

He glowered and didn't answer, and I couldn't blame him. And he was horribly mussed. Lara had snatched him while he was in pajamas and an old T-shirt. He had on boots and his coat, because she was a kidnapper with standards, dammit, and knew frostbitten victims were problematic. The Wyndhams probably had a rule about making sure all their victims were appropriately dressed for the weather.

If I seem like I am about to laugh, kick me.

Don't you dare laugh! It's not funny! My poor dad must be terrifi—ugh, I can't believe I thought of him as ‘my poor dad.' But come on. He must have been really scared. Well, maybe not at first. But eventually. Definitely by the time Derik showed up to help her.

Remind me to gift Lara Wyndham with several gold bars. Or a car. No, too young. A horse? Girls like horses, yes?

This one would
eat
that poor horse.

Two horses, then.

I shook my head to clear Sinclair from my thoughts. “Dad, just—give us a minute, okay? Let's get this sorted and then I'll get you a cab or a ride or what have you.”

“It wasn't even my idea,” he muttered from his corner. “The video, talking to the media, that was all your sister's plan.”

That's it, can't bail on her fast enough, can you?
I eyed him and decided, no, best not get into the “hey, jackass, she did it for you and who are you kidding? You bankrolled the whole thing” discussion in front of the Wyndhams. But it did get me thinking.

“Lara, Derik—how'd you guys even know he was my dad? You've never met him before, right? And you can't pick up my scent.”

“No, but things in your house carry scents,” Derik explained.
He seemed relieved to be answering a straightforward question. I didn't envy him being caught between Michael and Lara. Jeannie'd probably have some choice words for him, too. Which definitely didn't make me want to snicker. “And your mother and brother are frequent visitors here. We could pick up their scents, no problem, and that was half the battle.”

“So family members smell the same?” Fascinating. And a little disgusting. Did that mean that I smelled a bit like Polo aftershave? And/or Laura's cheap sneakers? And that they smelled like cotton and Beverly Feldmans? Also, what were the odds that I'd have two Antonias and two Laura/Laras in my life?
*

“Well, it's like lettuce leaves.”

“Um.” I took another look. Yep, Derik seemed serious. “What?”

He actually warmed to the topic. And keep in mind, the topic was lettuce. “There's all kinds of lettuce. But butter lettuce doesn't taste like radicchio and iceberg lettuce doesn't taste like romaine. Chicory endive tastes nothing like mizuna, and cress isn't at all like oakleaf.”

“Okay, you know a lot about lettuce.” Maybe too much. Although I'd never thought about lettuce as particularly sinister before now, no one could know that much about greens and not be up to something.

“He's a gourmet,” Lara piped up.

I didn't smile, but it was a near thing. “Gore-
may
. The
t
is silent.” That'll teach her to correct me on geography. And as strange as the family-as-salad analogy was, Derik had put it in a way I could grasp, which I always appreciated.

“Lara.”
Yikes. When parents snapped your name in unison,
and italics, it was time to pay attention. “The topic under discussion is not Derik as amateur gourmet,” Michael continued. Though maybe it should have been. Lettuce-sniffing weirdo. “It's that you have wronged our hosts and need to make amends.”

Hosts. Aww, that's cute. Hosts who didn't invite you. Hosts you're not actually staying with. Hosts you overtly threatened before we encouraged your rapid departure. But sure, sure—we're their hosts.

“Yes, Dad.”

“You need to ask forgiveness.”

She nodded, clearly miserable. She'd probably expected praise, or at least a quick resolution to the vampire/werewolf spat. Instead she broke several rules, could have made the situation much worse, got ripped for it in front of strangers, and now she had to apologize in front of those same strangers. I hadn't been a kid in years, but I remembered that feeling perfectly well. Like there's something in your throat and you can't choke it down no matter how much you try. Knowing everyone in the room can see you're blushing, and not able to do anything about it, which made you blush harder. Knowing everyone in the room—especially the strangers—was almost as uncomfortable as you were, but nobody could move on until you forced yourself to talk. And talking, in that moment, seemed impossible. Like you'd never find the words, and everyone would stand around and stare at you until the end of time.

The worst.

I went to one knee in front of her. There really was something to that whole “get down on their level” thing. I had always liked being tall, starting when I was a kid. Being taller than my teachers by the time I was in high school cut
way
back on the condescension. But the reverse of that was sometimes I intimidated people when I didn't mean to. So: down.

“Lara, you are brilliant and brave and sneaky and a criminal genius and you should be grounded for a decade and I'm a little terrified of you right now. Of course I forgive you; you were trying to solve a problem, trying to help your Pack, and it wasn't your fault that—” I cut myself off. No point in piling it on; Jeannie
still
looked like a sentient thundercloud. “Next time—because I have every confidence we'll be working together in the future—just ask me what you think I'd want. Unless it's my birthday. Then just always assume: shoes.”

She let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

She glanced at her mom, then back at me. “Thanks. Uh, 'bye?”