Undead and Done (9 page)

I scooted back a bit on the pew, away from her, and I wasn't aware I was doing it until I noticed I'd put another foot between us. “Y'know the difference between you and me, Laura? Other than the fact that you've never had a pimple? I never sat in judgment on you. You and our father like to bitch about the embarrassment of having a vampire in the family; how d'you think I felt when I found out my long-lost sister wasn't just prettier and smarter than me, but was the Antichrist? And what did I do? Huh? Whine? Yes. Feel incredibly insecure? Of course. Show you the door?
No.
Tell you that you were bound to turn evil because that's what happens in every single book or movie about the Antichrist? No.”

“That's not—”

“Now let's talk about what I
did
do. Did I welcome you into my home? Yes. After you tried to kill me? Yes! You tried to commit fratricide, and I could have killed you for it but didn't, but
I'm
the Hell-bound bitch?”

“Sororicide. Fratricide is killing your brother. And we're not discussing your nature,” she added, but she had the grace to look uncomfortable. “This is about the great thing we can do together.”

“Ohhh.” I saw it then. Her actual plan, and the plan beneath, the thing driving her to recruit zillions for the Lord's force, the thing she might not be consciously aware of. “So your life's purpose
wasn't
to take over for Satan. And me giving you the boot from Hell—and by extension taking away all
your supernatural abilities—that's all fine, because
really
, your purpose was always to bring peace on earth, goodwill toward men by proving the existence of God. It's not you flailing around for something meaningful to do because you didn't think past getting out of your birthright.”

“I hated my powers,” she said to the pew in front of us. “They were proof of my sin, my dark nature. But . . . I liked them, too. And now I miss them.”

“Tough shit.” I couldn't muster even a shred of sympathy. She'd been able to teleport to and from Hell, and she could focus her will—which was considerable—and make weapons of hellfire, swords and knives and on one memorable occasion, arrows, that had no effect on “normal” people but were devastating to the supernatural. They made her remarkably skilled at killing vampires. “Like a hot knife through butter” didn't begin to cover it. “If you're waiting for me to go all ‘there, there' for you, I hope you packed a lunch, because we'll be here for a while.”

“You owe me!” she cried, and the hell of it was, she really believed that. I was the big bad vampire queen who'd cheated her out of what she wanted to give away.

“I don't owe you a goddamned thing,” I snapped back. Her mouth popped open and I kept on. “I know we're in church! I think God would give me a pass on this one!” I was on my feet without remembering standing. “We're done. So sorry to keep you waiting while I was learning your job. I'm going now.”

She sniffed. (I'd have snorted; did she have to be more graceful in
everything
she did?) Mumbled something that sounded like, “Typical,” but I wasn't going to rise to the bait. (This time. Probably.) I heard her stand and follow me down the aisle like we were the Taylor sisters hanging out after church, just a couple of sisters disagreeing over matters that
weren't life and death, instead of the Antichrist and the vampire queen arguing about the best way to prove God was real, or not, in order to demand the conversion of millions, or not.

The worst part? I still wanted her to like me. She was the only sister I was ever going to have, and I admired her when I wasn't thinking about puncturing her eyeballs with my stilettos. She was sneaky but brave, judgmental but unwavering, beautiful but bitchy when crossed. I'd been impressed and jealous since the moment we met. She was her mother's dreadful daughter in every way . . . and our father's . . .

. . . and I still wanted her to like me.

ELEVEN

I yanked myself back to the present and reminded myself
that Jessica was right—we had no idea how the mess du jour was going to shake out, and it was too soon to contemplate. I was opening my mouth to cough up the equivalent of “there, there, don't fret, want a booze smoothie?” when the kitchen door swung inward and Marc galloped in, hauling Will Mason in his wake like a kid dragging a blankie. It didn't help that the guy was wearing a pastel blue shirt and smelled like laundry detergent.

“Jeez,
there
you are!”

“Uh, I wasn't hiding, Marc. Remember when we both popped into the kitchen at the same time? And then you scampered off? Remember? Happened less than five minutes ago?”

“No jokes,” he barked, “this is serious!”

“Actually, I usually joke
because
things are serious—”

“And now where's Sinclair run off to?” Tell you what, Marc could really hit high notes when he was upset. He usually saved the shrieks for whatever
Game of Thrones
nonsense he was
enduring at the hands of the heartless boob-obsessed bums at HBO. “Where is he?”

“Dude, you're the one who keeps yelling and then leaving. And keep it down.” I shifted the warm little football that smelled like milk and was named Elizabeth or Eric from one arm to the other. “You'll wake the babies. Theoretically.” They didn't nap so much as hibernate for hours at a time. I was amazed at the things they slept through. I took another sniff (someone seriously needed to bottle
eau de bébé
), then laid Elizabeth or Eric down beside Elizabeth or Eric. “Hi, Will. Nice to see you again. Thanks for not breaking in this time.”

“I didn't break in last time,” he protested. He looked frazzled and wispy as usual, like he wasn't all there. Pastel shirts and jeans were his uniform of choice, and he smelled like Dreft and Suave. His hair was longish, over his ears, baby fine, and always messy. His eyes, behind wire rims, always seemed a little too wide and starey—you could see the whites all around. He was always like a horse about to bolt. “I just . . . y'know. Came in. You guys need locks.”

“Yeah, because you walking in uninvited means
we're
the problem.” I was needling him more for sport than out of any real ire. Look: if he was going to be anything more than a one-night stand for Marc, he needed to toughen up. So far his life had been smooth sailing. Except for being orphaned at a young age. And being terrified when he realized he could see ghosts. And struggling for his place in a world where the dead bugged him and the living didn't notice him. And referring to himself in all seriousness as the Freak. And being a huge John Cusack fan. And being gay on top of all of that. Or bi. I wasn't really paying attention to that part of it.

I couldn't imagine the hell of his lonely, terrifying childhood. No parents. Lots of ghosts. Cripes. I saw ghosts, too,
but not until I was thirty. And they weren't bugging me so much lately. Probably because they knew plenty of souls in Hell were busy bugging me.

“Listen,” Will was saying, all earnest and cute, “my sources—” And I laughed. I couldn't help it; he was downright adorable.
Sources
was how he referred to the dead people who pestered him. “Yeah, yeah, I'm aware you think that's hilarious—”

“You're adorable!”

“—but you've got a real problem.” He was trying to stay stern, but a shy smile escaped anyway; he was like a little kid sometimes. Honestly, the mansion, our lives, the danger, the profanity—it was all no place for him.

“You had Sinclair haul me from Hell to tell me that? I've got about nineteen real problems.”

“Darling.” Speak of the devil, and there I was. Oh, and my husband, too, who'd just walked in holding my most precious, most treasured book. “How did you get the author of
Smoothie Nation
to sign this with that immature nickname you persist in using?”

“Isn't it nifty?” I cried. I rushed over to him, nearly knocking Will over. “Did you check out page sixty-three? Banana split smoothies!”

“I think that particular smoothie ventures into milk-shake territory.”

“Never question
Smoothie Nation
, you ignorant bastard. Plus, pictures! I love cookbooks with photos.” Truth! I liked knowing what the thing I was consuming was supposed to look like if a competent person had followed the recipe.
*

“You guys.”
From Will, and it got our attention, because that
guy never raised his voice. Probably because he was always running around whispering to ghosts so people wouldn't think he was insane. “My sources told me the Wyndham werewolves—”

“Oh, damn,” I sighed. “You're right, that's a problem.”

“Yeah, well, they're not pleased; that's for sure. I heard rumors so I canceled my meeting with Marc—”

“Meeting?” As opposed to date? Hmm. That might mean the Ant was going to win the bet. Did I care? Too early to tell.

“—and followed up and it's true. It's happening.”

“A pack of werewolves is on their way to see us?” Jessica sounded as tense as I felt. She'd met several of them. Werewolves on their worst, weakest days were still nothing to mess with.

“No, I mean a pack of werewolves is
here
.”

Which is, of course, when the doorbell rang. And when our puppies set up a clamor like I'd never heard. If puppies could scream, they'd have sounded like Fur and Burr just then.

Dammit.

TWELVE

“Jessica, come on. I'll help you with the babies and we'll—”

“Mom, leave BabyJon where he is.”

“—get out of— What?” She wasn't used to a calm tone from me, shrieking and bitching being my go-to emotions for pop-ins. It was the age of social media, for God's sake. You could call
or
text
or
e-mail
or
poke; there was no excuse for a pop-in these days!

“BabyJon stays here, Mom. But yeah, help Jess with her babies.”

My mom started to reply, but Jessica cut her off. “I'll say hello to them. I've met Michael before. Then we'll go.”

“But—”

“Dr. Taylor.” Whoa. Jessica almost never called my mom that. Heck, sometimes she pretended to slip and called my mom
Mom
. “We moved out because of the people we don't know, like eight dozen reporters hanging out in front of the house doing God knows what. And nobody knows where Laura's devil-worshipping minions are—they could be on the
block right now, planning to get in here and start some shit. So yeah, we moved out.”

“Then why—”

“But I know Michael Wyndham. I've met him and his wife and his kids. I've been a guest in their home. So I'm going to say hello like a civilized person and welcome them to town and then I'll take my babies and leave. But I'm not scuttling off like some pathetic loser.”

“Can
I
scuttle off like some pathetic loser?” Will asked, and whether he meant to or not, that broke the tension.

We heard measured footsteps—Sinclair and I did; the others probably couldn't hear anything—and knew Tina was calmly going to the door to let them in. Because Jess was right: we didn't hide. And we didn't scuttle. And also,
Smoothie Nation
was waiting for us to settle this and make smoothies. We'll never let you down,
Smoothie Nation
.

“I'll go through the mudroom and calm the puppies down,” Mom said. “But, Betsy, I really think I should take BabyJon.” She paused, then added wistfully, “Though it'd be fun to meet more werewolves.”

Fun? Wasn't my mom adorable? “Trust me—that baby's in no danger from werewolves.” Or vamps. Or witches. Or ghouls. Or mermaids.

“I don't see how—”

Sinclair, who'd already scooped up our dozing boy, turned to my mother. “He is impervious to paranormal harm.”

“What?”

“Nothing paranormal can hurt—”

“No, I heard what you said, I just— What?” She turned to me. “Since when? I spend more time with him than you two; why wouldn't you tell me this?”

“When the hell would it have come up? ‘Hey, he's getting
another tooth and by the way, a werewolf tried to bite him and BabyJon thought it was hilarious.'”

My mom stared at BabyJon. “Well, that's pretty interesting. It must be the link to your father.”

“Let's leave Dad out of this. And everything else. All the time. Forever.”

Disobeying me yet again, she continued. “He's had three children—”

“That we know of,” Marc piped up. “What?” In response to my aghast look. “Your dad's kind of a slut.”

“We're not going to talk about my dad being a slut, either.”

“—and one of those children was the prophesied vampire queen, one was the Antichrist, and now his youngest can't be harmed by any means paranormal.” Then: “You still should have told me, and we're not done discussing this.”

“Of course, Dr. Taylor.”

“I'll leave, though.”

“As you like, madam.”

“And this explains why almost overnight our boy went from being a pain in your ass to ‘our boy.'”

“You should have seen those other werewolves,” Sinclair said, tenderly patting BabyJon's back and definitely not bragging. “They were terrified. Of an infant! Think when he's in his prime.”

“Hmph. See to your guests. We'll talk later. Jessica, I'll be glad to stay here with the twins while you pay your respects.”

“Thanks.”

“And I'll stay with you while you stay here with the twins while Jessica pays her respects,” Will piped up. “If . . . y'know. If you want me to.”

“You don't have to stay,” Marc pointed out.

“No, no . . . I mean, I want to. I'm not the kind to scuttle
off, either. Usually. I'll, uh, hold my ground. Help you hold your ground, I mean.” He didn't look like he could hold his own urine, but whatever. But he'd come on the run to warn us. A lot of people would have just kept their heads down and waited for the storm to break.

“It'll be fine,” I assured him. “We know these guys. They're probably here to bitch about something, and then they'll do some posturing, and then we'll decide everyone's going to keep being friendly, and then they'll go back to the Cape and do whatever it is they do when they're not bugging me. Just give us five minutes with them.”

“Well, you sure sound confident.” Will let out a nervous laugh. “Gotta admit, you guys can be a little unnerving.”

“Well, it's what we do.”

“It was kind of you to warn us, Mr. Mason.” This from Sinclair, who had nudged the kitchen door with his foot and was now holding it open for us to precede him into the parlor.

“Yeah, well.” A shrug. That bashful smile again. “That's what
I
do.”

Adorable!