Undead and Done (12 page)

“Lara.”

She winced so hard her ponytail swung. “I'msorryforover-steppinginyourterritoryQueenBetsy. There.”

“I understand why you did.” I stood.

Most gracious, my own.

Enh, give her a break. It's not like my dad wasn't begging for it.

“That's kind of you,” Michael said quietly.

“Oh, I'm sure one of these days I'll make some horrible blunder in werewolf etiquette,” I replied, and the thought made me feel oddly cheerful. “If not this visit—which isn't over, so there's still time!—then maybe the next one. I'll probably need some of that leniency from your side then, right?”

“Right,” absolutely
everyone
said in unison. Not cool, gang!

Lara apologized to Sinclair, who bowed and said, “The pleasure of your company is matched only by your courtesy. Perhaps before you and your family leave, you'll indulge me by telling me how you pulled off such a remarkable feat.”

“You—really?” The blush was fading and her entire face lit up. “I thought you'd be—I mean, I know Betsy doesn't like her—um—I mean—he's your father-in-law. I thought you'd be mad.”

“And did it anyway? Risking the wrath of vampires as well as werewolves? Commendable. Further, I have no regard whatsoever for Mr. Taylor,” Sinclair continued, taking no trouble to keep his voice down. He smiled at Lara. “The only reason I haven't killed him is
because
he sired the queen.”

And Lara smiled
back
.

Yeesh. Time to steer the subject away from killing my dad. “The irony is, this is only partially my dad's fault. If you really wanted to get the culprit who put it all in motion, you should've grabbed my sister. Oh, and by the way, that's not a suggestion.”

“Um.” Lara coughed. Looked at the floor again. “About your sister.”

Which is when familiar fists hammered on our front door and a familiar voice shrieked, “You give me my father back!” and familiar feet kicked at the bottom of the door and that same familiar voice added, “Or I'll give these reporters an interview you won't
believe
!”

I stared at the world's most dangerous middle schooler. “You're unbelievable.”

“Thanks!”

“Not a compliment.” I was pretty sure.

EIGHTEEN

“Are you all right, John? Did they hurt you?” Laura had
stormed the Peach Parlor in a fury. Once we'd let her in, that is. Believe me, there'd been a couple of votes to just leave her out on the porch to let her squawk to the media. Marc can be
such
a bitch when he's aggravated. Sinclair, too. “Are you hurt?”

“'Mfine,” my dad mumbled, shrugging back into his coat. He wouldn't look at me, but that had been his MO for years. “Ready to go.”

“Don't worry, John. I've got some of my people outside and they'll make sure you get out of here safely.”

“John?” I asked, mouth open. “You don't let her call you Dad?”

“That's how I show my respect!” she flared. She'd extended a hand to help him up from the chair, which he'd avoided as he clambered to his feet. And she couldn't see it. All the subtle tells that showed he wanted nothing to do with us. And the way he kept saying he wanted nothing to do with us. All whizzing over her head.

“That's also how his mailman shows respect. And his accountant. Because they're his mailman. And his accountant.” Could. Not. Believe it. How long had this been going on? “You're his daughter. Jeez, just call him Dad already.”

“I don't take orders from you anymore, Betsy.”

“Did you ever? Honest question.” I started tapping my foot as an alternative to daring Jeannie to shoot her in the face. “When, in the time we've known each other, when have you ever followed an order of mine? When did I even
give
you an order?”

She stopped trying to help our father, who was having none of it anyway, and whirled to face me. “Did you really think you'd get away with this?”

“Which part?”

“Don't play dumb!”

Play?

“Ms. Goodman, my daughter has already apologized to Mr. Taylor and the queen—”

At “queen,” Laura made a noise like a cat that had been thrown into a bubble bath.

“—on behalf of our P—”

“You set your pets on our father,” she said, aghast. “Had them
fetch
him to your command.”

“Whoa!” I spun toward Michael. “Nobody fetched anything! Again: I have never, ever, in any way,
ever
referred to any of you as my pets, ever—”

“I think they get it,” Marc said. “But maybe throw a few more ‘evers' in there, just to be sure.”

“—because first of all: rude. And second, super-duper inaccurate. And third . . . well, I'll need a minute to come up with another one, but once I do I'll definitely have more in reserve.” I mean, Jesus. Were they
trying
to get me killed? Oh. Right.

“How'd you even fix it so Laura would show up here?” Marc asked, which was a wonderful question.

“Well, I took away his phone and called the last few numbers still in ‘Recent.'” To my father as he inched ever closer to the front hall and sweet, sweet freedom: “Sir, you really should passcode your phone.”

“Yeah, any rando werewolf could kidnap you and use it to trick the Antichrist into doing a pop-in,” Marc added with, it must be said, vicious glee. “That's what would have solved all this: passcodes!”

“Anyway.” Lara seemed a little irked at being interrupted. Oh, honey. Welcome to my galaxy. “I figured out which number was Laura's by process of elimination. The others were his accountant and some reporters.”

“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk,” I clucked, popping each
k
. “The paps, Dad? Really? Hope that whole you-faking-your-own-death thing didn't come up.”

“Don't worry,” Lara assured me, “I didn't tell the reporters anything.”

“Bullet dodged. Good to know.”

Now Michael
and
Jeannie were doing the “oh shit another migraine” temple rubs. Heh.

“Anyway, yours was the only number that called him that he didn't call back. He did call Laura back, though. The one who actually likes him.”

“Ha!” From Laura, who was deluded enough to think that would hurt me.

“So I figured if I called her and told her exactly what I was doing—”

“Didn't even apologize,” Laura said with an indignant huff. “Just called me up and confessed!”

“—I could get him as well as the
other
person causing all
the trouble over here so the whole clean-house thing could get under way.”

“That,” Sinclair said, “is an excellent story. Tell it again, will you, dear?”

“No, don't. We have long outstayed our welcome. And Lara and her mother and I still need to have a lengthy discussion about the events of the evening.” And the smile just
dropped
off Lara's face. “Our apologies again. And our thanks. Again,” Michael said.

I waved it off. “Nobody got hurt and your kid's heart was in the right place.” Also her claws and teeth.

“You should all be ashamed.” Because scolding people who had sincerely apologized always fixed everything. “Everything you do brings havoc and hurts innocents,” Laura continued.

Lara blinked up at her. My sister was even taller than I was, which was probably God's way of compensating her for having shitty taste in clothes and also being a tight-ass. “Aren't you the Antichrist?”

Laura flushed so hard she actually swayed on her feet; that's how fast the blood rushed to her head. Also, ha! “That—that is irrelevant. You're just a child; you don't know what you're talking about.”

“Doesn't the Bible say you're going to persecute the saints?
*
And names you the son of destruction
*
and says you're going to deny God and Jesus?”

Whoa. If Laura got any redder, I was pretty sure she'd faint. Just pitch face-first into the peach carpet. And me with my phone all the way upstairs! “I will never deny Them! That's
why I—” Then she snapped her mouth shut so hard we all heard her teeth clack together.

“Oh. Wait. This isn't some hugely pathetic bid for our father's love. Well, it is, but it's also about proving to God that you're not going along with the Antichrist agenda. Huh.” This . . . explained a lot, actually. Laura had always been worried she'd be like her mother. I was only now realizing I had way underestimated her terror; she was a lot more afraid of turning
into
her mother. And then destroying the world. “Well, the Bible's not infallible. It's not a blueprint. It's—it's stories. They don't have to all come true exactly the way someone wrote them.”

“Shut your mouth. You've never read anything more complex than
Vogue
. The complexities and messages of the Bible would be completely beyond you,” Laura ranted.

“Hey! I don't even like
Vogue
; the thing's bigger than a phone book and the ads are weird. You know I'm an
InStyle
subscriber and that's plenty complex.” They weren't just about clothes, you know.
InStyle
was about how anyone can come up with their own signature style and look great—any age, any size, any budget. Now,
there
was a message for all the people of the world. “And I'm trying to make you feel better, you beautiful moron!”

“Wow,” was Michael's comment. Oh, right. The werewolves were still here. “You actually paid attention in Sunday school. Good for you, honey.”

Meanwhile, Jeannie was studying Laura. “That's right. We were so focused on the vampires, we forgot about you.”
Story of Laura's life,
I thought but didn't say. “You betrayed her secret to the world. And in return, she took pity on you and declined to tell the world that you're actual, literal devil's spawn. That's something actual, literal devil's spawn should keep in mind. You owe her.”

Oops! Just when Laura's face couldn't get redder, she outdid herself. Purple was not a good look for her forehead. “I've got no interest in taking advice from some werewolf's bitch.”

“Wonderful to see you all again!” Michael said loudly. “We'll definitely have to do this again sometime!”

“Really?” Sinclair asked, looking as delighted as I'd ever seen him. “Wonderful. Just wonderful.”

“But, wow, look at the time!” Which was inaccurate, since he never looked at the time. Michael now had Jeannie by one elbow and Lara by the hand, and hustled them over to the door so fast they almost knocked over my dad. “Thanks again, Betsy, you've got our numbers, let's definitely get together before we have to leave town, good-bye.” Then they were out the front door, Derik right behind them.

“You have no idea how lucky you just got,” I informed the Antichrist. “Just so unbelievably lucky. You managed to piss off the second most dangerous person in the room.” Lara being the first, naturally.

Laura opened her mouth (again), only to be interrupted by a soft, toneless, “Everything all right in here, Laura?”

We all looked. When the Wyndhams had gone out, followed by my dad, someone new had come in. Why couldn't the Wyndhams have left, and Laura and my dad left, and no one come in? Was that really so much to ask?

Because I didn't want to talk to this poor guy, but I didn't dare send him away, either. He was untouchable, and that was entirely on me.

NINETEEN

PREVIOUSLY, ON THE BETSY SHOW . . .

“Bring out the other one. Your assistant. Prove ordinary vampires
can tolerate sunlight. Not just the king and queen.”

Whoa. Okay, I knew Laura's obnoxious campaign included snippets about our lives that were none of the public's business. Those snippets included everything that came out of her mouth while on camera. But these people were actually paying attention to the details! They knew Sinclair and I were special; they knew regular vampires were vulnerable to sunlight and fire. For the first time I was more frightened than pissed. Did today's media really have nothing better to do than troll YouTube videos put up by gorgeous blondes?

Don't answer that.

“I don't have to prove anything, pal. That's on you guys. Do
not
take that as a dare! Besides, you— Sorry, what's your name?”

“Ronald Tinsman.”

“Right, Ronald Tinsman. Do you really not have anything
better to do than stand in my yard babbling about vampires and freezing your ass off?”

“No,” he replied quietly.

“Oh.” Well,
that
took the wind out of my sails. “Well. Okay, then.”

Tinsman. I knew that name. I'd heard it in recent, unpleasant circumstances. He didn't look or sound familiar, and he was dressed in midwinter casual: jeans, boots, a partially unzipped parka revealing a green-and-black flannel shirt. He was pale and puffy, with thinning brown hair and an exhausted gaze. But there was something about his eyes . . . dammit, where'd I know this guy from?

Sinclair must have caught the stray thought, because . . .

I doubt Mr. Tinsman is interested in our condolences on the loss of his daughter to vampirism and beheading.

“Oh,
fuck
!” I managed, and the shriek of microphone feedback nearly deafened me. “Argh, sorry!” I shook my head like a dog at a whistle to clear the ringing. “Wait, I'm not sorry. You're all trespassing and this is a stupid story. Isn't there a war going on somewhere? I'm almost positive there's a war somewhere. It's not the war on drugs—we've pretty much given up on that one . . .”

“What do you have to say about your father giving sworn affidavits testifying to the fact that vampires exist?”

“My
father
?” Tilt! Too much to process. For the first time ever, I longed to be back in Hell. “You mean the asshat who faked his death to get out of spending time with his family because he didn't care for the paperwork that comes with divorce proceedings?” I glared at Laura, who just shrugged. Suddenly this was making a lot more awful, awful sense. The Antichrist, in her continuing efforts to find the adult equivalent of a Daddy and Me class, had teamed up with my dad to expose me and mine to the world. And for what?

Revenge for imagined slights. Both of them. Pathetic. Both of them.

“My father and my half sister have at least one thing in common,” I said shortly. “They're both liars.” This was technically true, though more so in my dad's case than Laura's. The Antichrist was a huge fan of lying by omission, then convincing herself it wasn't like that.

“But what about the allegations of—”

“This unscheduled interview with you pack of trespassers is over. And this is private property. All of you get out. Not
you
, Laura. We need to talk.”

Understatement.

*   *   *

“What the fuck is wrong with you.” I was so pissed, so
shocked by what had just happened, I couldn't get any volume or inflection. My outraged question came out like a little flat statement.

Laura shrugged and leaned against the back of the love seat.

“Laura! Answer the question: what's wrong with you?”

“Nothing's wrong with
me
. Besides, I'm just doing what you told me.”

“God, you're an
infant
sometimes—you know that? It wasn't a dare and you damned well know it!”

“It was a taunt,” she replied. “You were taunting me. You're always taunting me.”

“Taunting, huh? That word-a-day toilet paper is really working out for you.”

“See?”

I was pacing back and forth in front of her, trying not to rip my own hair out. Harshing my highlights would help no one; looking less attractive would help
no one
. “And how the hell do you know Cindy Tinsman's dad?”

“We both volunteer at Fairview.”

“Of course you do.”

Of course they did. My entire postdeath life consisted of huge, life-changing pieces of luck: sometimes good, sometimes bad. This time it was definitely the latter.

“And don't get any ideas,” she warned, looking far too comfortable for the trouble she was in. “My people have instructions on what to do if I mysteriously disappear. You can't do anything to me while the world is looking over your shoulder.”

“You're definitely watching too much television.” I rubbed my forehead and added, “Walk me through this insanity of yours. You and Cindy's dad know each other, and somehow you found out what happened to his daughter—”

“Happened to?” She snorted. “You're making it sound like she was caught in a thunderstorm. You decapitated her after turning her.”

“I didn't turn her! And Sinclair didn't either, and neither did Tina—”

“One of your filth,” she said with a flick of her fingers. “It's on you.”

I ground my teeth. She had a point. With great blah-blah came great blah-blah.

“I was the only one who would listen to him. And together we decided to expose you. He's got media contacts, and I've got plenty of—”

“Satan-worshipping staff,” I interrupted. “I'll bet you didn't mention to Mr. Tinsman that you're the Antichrist.”

“I did, actually,” was the calm reply, and I nearly walked into the wall (probably should slow down my pacing).

“You did? Really?”

“Of course. We can't be partners without transparency.”

“And you think him being numb means he's fine with that.”

For the first time, she faltered. “He's not— I mean, yes, he's grieving. But he knows I'm a force for good, despite my birthright, like he knows you're a force for evil, despite yours.”

I stopped pacing and stood in front of her. “No,” I said bluntly. “He's lost his wife and daughter in a very short time. His wife died of cancer while he was helpless and could only watch, and his daughter was recently murdered in a particularly nasty way, because a lifelong friend of his family happened to be a vampire. You could have set yourself on fire and waltzed with a grizzly bear and he'd have had the same reaction: ‘yeah, okay, sounds good, I don't care.'”

“I don't—”

“Yeah, that's just right. You don't. Oh, say, where's our dear old daddy-o?”

“He—” She realized she didn't know, and closed her mouth. I was too irked to feel much triumph.
God, what an idiot. Both of them. Must be a genetic thing. Curse. Whatever.

“You didn't even notice, did you? Too busy preening for the cameras. He slipped away the moment he realized I'd seen him. And that, little sister, is our father in a nutshell. All talk, no follow-up. He's made a career out of terrible choices that he can't stick with.”

“He's scared of you! And he's right to be scared. I said I'd protect him—”

I almost giggled.

“—and when I told him my plan he thought it was a wonderful idea. He
wanted
to help. He helped finance the operation.”

“With his ill-gotten gains. But hey, the ends justify the et cetera, right, Laura?”

“You just can't stand that he wants to help me expose you. He had to fake his death just to get any peace.”

I sighed. Laura had an amazing ability to interpret all my
actions as evil, and all our evil dad's actions as good. And her own intentions were, in her mind, always golden. “Yeah, he committed fraud for the greater good. Except not really.”

“And why do you suppose he did that?” she asked in an exaggerated let's-find-the-answer-together tone.

“Because he's a raging coward who thrives on ducking familial responsibility?”

She glared. “That's our father you're speaking of.”

“I know.” I could feel my shoulders slump. Exhausted and it was barely noon. “That's why it's so awful.”

“He did it because he was afraid of you.”

“Oh Jesus-please-us.” I rolled my eyes hard enough to hurt. “He can't think I'd ever hurt him.”

“You threatened to kill him!”

“Mmm . . . doesn't sound like me. No, I'm pretty sure I never—oh. Wait. Huh.” It was all coming back to me, like those nightmares where you're naked and tardy and haven't studied for the test and everyone's throwing tomatoes at you. “Fine, I did threaten him. Don't look at me like that; it was a stressful couple of days, took me a second to remember. Do
you
remember every conversation you've had in the last two months?”

She took a breath and put her hands behind her back. I grinned; in her mind she was throttling me. I've been seeing that look on people's faces for decades. “So you admit it. You know he doesn't trust you!”

“Wait, the guy who
faked
his own
death
is the one having trust issues? Jeepers, who'd have thought?”

“He still wanted to help me. He was so happy to see me,” she babbled, lost in the happy memory of our father pretending he cared. “He was on board from the start; he thought telling the truth about you was a wonderful idea.”

“He thought revealing he'd faked his death and committed insurance fraud was a wonderful idea?”

“He— What?”

“Moron!” I'd leaned down and shouted it into her face, and watching her flinch was deeply satisfying. “He broke the law! It's a felony, dumbass! He'll be lucky if he's
only
sued. They could slam his ass into Stillwater for—for—”

“Up to twenty years and a fine of up to one hundred thousand dollars in the state of Minnesota,” the doorway said, except not really.

“Oh, you might as well get in here,” I said, resuming my pacing.

To my surprise, Dick led the charge: “You're pathetic.” Tina stretched on her tiptoes to peek over his shoulders, and nodded in agreement. The others were crammed in behind them (narrow doorway).

Laura said nothing, just raised her eyebrows.

“She's only ever welcomed you,” he continued, presumably referring to me, “and occasionally called you on your shit.” Definitely referring to me.

“Not her job,” Laura snapped back.

“It by God ought to be someone's job! Sorry, Tina,” said Dick.

“It's fine,” said Tina. The rest had come in and were glaring en masse at Laura, who should have been less irritated and more afraid. “Understandable.”

“I can't wait until someone catches you flinching at the Lord's name on camera,” Laura said.

“You underestimate our resources,” was Sinclair's cool reply. “And you underestimate our queen, as ever.” In small rooms he always seemed taller than he was, and if Laura wasn't exactly cowering (she got points for that, if nothing else), she
was definitely in his shadow. In
all
ways. “You think you're the only person in ten thousand years to try to expose us? This is nothing new. You're nothing new. There's not one original thing about you, not a unique thought in your head. Everything about you is a cliché, including this childish resentment you have for your older sister. I'd pity you, Laura, if you warranted it.”

Whoa.