Undead and Unemployed (5 page)

"Goodness!" Monique said.

"Wow," Tina said respectfully.

I slumped so hard against the steering wheel, my head activated the horn for a brief honk.

I should have known. I should have known! Summit Avenue was one of the oldest streets in St. Paul. It was absolutely packed with mansions. And 607 Summit Avenue was a doozy. White, except for black shutters. Three floors. An amazing front porch right out of
Gone with the Wind
. And the detached garage was as big as my current house.

"Dammit, dammit." I climbed out of the car, and Monique and Tina scrambled after me.

"Just how much money does Jessica have?" Tina asked in awe. It was taking forever to get to the door via the front walk.

"Too much." I was stomping so hard, I could actually feel my heels leaving marks in the concrete. I eased up. Damn sidewalk was probably five hundred years old. "Way too much."

"I think it's perfect. It suits your rank much better than—"

"Stop." I pounded on the front door, then opened it and crept in, instantly intimidated.

It was worse than I feared. The first thing I saw was the sweeping staircase, eight feet wide, shined to a high gloss, and winding up out of sight. The front hall was as big as my living room. The place smelled like wood and wax, cleaning supplies and old, old carpet.

"Jessica!" I yelled.
Ick-uh, ick-uh, ick-uh
echoed up and down the hall.

"You're going to live here?" Monique asked, goggling.

"Shit, no. Jessica!"
Ick-uh! Ick-uh! Ick-uh
!

She and Marc appeared at the top of the stairs, and galloped down to us. "Finally! You're late. What do you think?" she said. "Isn't it grand?"

"Wait'll you see the dining room table," Marc added. "It has seventeen leaves!"

"Jessica, it's too big. There's three of us, remember? How many bedrooms does this place have?"

"Eleven," she admitted. "But that way we don't have to worry about where to put up guests."

"And, we all get our own bathroom," Marc added.

"And probably your own kitchen!" Tina said, eyes gone huge as she stared at the castle Jessica had bought with the money she'd found in her car seat cushions.

Sensing my mood (not a great trick), Jessica said sternly, "Oh, come on. Open your mind. It's big, but it's just a house."

"The governor's mansion is across the street!" I yelled.

"Just look around," Marc coaxed. "You'll like it."

"You guys…" I heard myself getting shrill and forced my voice into the lower registers. They'd probably worked hard, and the place had cost her a bundle. The closing costs alone had probably been six figures. It made me uncomfortable as hell, but I didn't want to come off as an ungrateful jerk. "It's not a question of liking, okay? I mean, I can see it's amazing and gorgeous and stuff."

"Thank goodness," Marc said.

"It's beautiful, okay? There's nothing wrong with it. But it's a question of affordability and practicality. Come on, how much is it?"

"Well, we're renting it for now, until they track down the owner."

"Jessica…"

"Three thousand a week," she admitted.

I nearly fainted. "The money from my house won't even cover a year's rent!"

"So you
can
do math in your head," Marc teased. "I was wondering."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Which one of us are you talking to?"

"Look, this is way more in keeping with your station, anyway," Jessica said, striving to sound logical.

"What station?" I glowered at her warningly. We didn't talk about the Queen Thing. She knew I didn't like it and was trying to find a way out of it.

"You know what station," Jess said sternly.
Traitor
! "With the king dropping by—"

"Do not call him that," I said through gritted teeth.

"Wow," Marc said, peering at me. "Your eyes are getting all red again. And…" He looked past me. I'd heard Monique and Tina back up a step, but I was too irked to care.

"Sinclair, all right? With Sinclair and Tina and… and other people"—she nodded at Monique—"well, you really need a decent house. Something that shows people—"

"That my roommate pays all my living expenses. Come on, this place isn't me."

"It's private… we're the last house on the block, and the only thing in the back yard is the Mississippi River. It's large and private, and there's a terrific security system in the garden. And you need privacy, Bets, even if you won't admit why. And it's big enough for you to entertain."

"Can't we just get a condo in downtown Minneapolis or something?" I whined.

"Vampire queens do not live in condos." Monique said it, but Tina and Jessica nodded emphatically.

"Look, we gotta live somewhere," Marc broke in. "Right? I mean, your house is gonna collapse in on itself if those bugs keep chomping. So, give the place a try for a few weeks. That's all we're asking."

Sure they were. Like I was going to pack and move my stuff twice in the same season. Jessica was bossy, which I was used to and could fight, but Marc was the voice of reason, against which I had no defense.

"You have to admit," Tina added helpfully, "it's an amazing house."

"So? If I'm the queen, how come I don't get to make any of the rules?"

Jessica grinned. "It's not your worry. We'll keep you informed."

"It's like, Jessica's the Bruce Wayne to your Batman," Marc added. "You can go out and fight crime, and she can pay the bills."

"Bruce Wayne and Batman were the same guy, idiot."

Jessica and Tina laughed together, which was annoying. At least Monique was remaining respectfully silent.

"Hi, Tina, I didn't get a chance to say howdy before," Marc said. He put out his big paw and shook Tina's teeny delicate hand. It was almost funny. I mean, Marc was tall, slender, and in pretty good shape, and he towered over Tina. But Tina and Monique could break all the bones in his hand with a single squeeze. And he knew it. Jessica did, too. They didn't care, either.

They were adjusting to this vampire stuff a lot faster than I was.

"Give me the tour," I said, surrendering. Marc was right. We had to live somewhere. And Jessica could buy every house on the block by barely cracking her credit line at the bank. There were lots of reasons to complain, but her financial situation wasn't one of them. "Let's see what you've signed me up for."

Tina and Monique left when the real-estate agent arrived, which was just as well. One hungry bloodsucker was plenty for the tour.

The agent was a perfectly pleasant older woman with gray hair and a truly awful tweed suit (in July!). But she scored points because, even though we all knew she was looking at a hefty commission, she didn't slobber all over us. And she knew plenty about the house. Marc whispered to me that she was probably around when it was built in 1823.

I
hee-heed
into my palm while May Townsend ("Just call me May-May, dear.") droned on about the exquisite woodwork, the fine craftsmanship, the fact that termites hadn't devoured the place, the pure privilege it was for low-life primates like us to walk on the hallowed floors. I thought about eating her, but frankly, the tweed smelled. She must have had a cedar closet at home.

"As I told you over the phone," May-May was saying while we trudged down from the third floor to the second, "most of the furniture comes with the house. The owners are in Prague and, frankly, would be interested in selling."

"We're renting," I said firmly, before Jessica could say anything.

"Very well, dear. This is the master bedroom," she added, opening the door to soaring ceilings, a bed the size of my kitchen, and huge windows. "It's been fully updated and the attached bath has a Jacuzzi, pedestal sink, and—"

"I call it!" Marc said loudly.

"Like hell," Jessica snapped. "I think the person who stands a chance of actually entertaining in their room should get it."

"Well, that lets Betsy and you out," Marc sneered. "When was the last time you got laid?"

"None of your damn business, white boy."

"Hand-stenciled wallpaper, unique to the time period, and note the gold leaf in the corners—"

"Since I've been shanghaied into this place," I interrupted, while May-May droned on about the authentic wood in the authentic floorboards, "I'll take the master bedroom. It's not like you guys don't have a dozen other ones to choose from."

"Ten," May-May corrected.

"Whatever."

"No fair!" Marc cried.

"It's that, or back to Termite Central." Finally, I was throwing my weight around… and actually getting my way! "Uh, hey, Marky-Marc, why don't you and May-May go check out the pedestal sink?"

"Why? If I don't get to use it, I—hey!" I gave him a gentle shove in the direction of the bathroom, sending him sprawling, and the real-estate agent dutifully followed. I didn't care if Marc heard, but my undead state was none of May-May's business.

"Uh, Jess," I asked quietly, "who's gonna take care of this mountain? Marc and I work nights, y'know, and you weren't exactly born with a silver broom in your mouth."

"I'll get a couple of housekeepers," Jessica assured me. "And we'll get someone to take care of the lawns and garden."

"I can take care of the lawn!" Marc yelled from the bathroom.

"Oh, you're gonna mow two acres every week?" Jessica yelled back. "And stop eavesdropping! I'm trying to have a private conversation here!"

"Maybe I will! Mow, I mean."

"Let's try to keep the helpers to a minimum," I said anxiously.

"Don't worry, Bets. No one's gonna find out unless you tell them."

"Find out what?" Marc asked, coming back into the room.

"That she's as dumb as she looks," Jessica said cheerfully, neatly avoiding my kick.

"Ready to inspect the first floor?" May-May asked brightly. I wasn't, but trailed behind them dutifully.

Jessica was as good as her word. I hadn't even gotten unpacked before I started seeing people in and out of the house, or Vamp Central, as Marc liked to call it. There were at least three housekeepers and two gardeners; Jessica hired them from The Foot, her nonprofit job-finding organization, so it worked out well for everybody.

The fridge was constantly full of pop, iced tea, cream, veggies, and supper fixings. The freezer bulged with ice cream and frozen margaritas. But the helpers were so circumspect, I hardly ever saw them. And if they thought it was weird that I slept all day and was out all night, nobody ever said anything to my face.

It was funny how much unpacking depressed me. We'd been in such a hurry to get out of Termiteville, I'd sort of thrown my stuff into boxes without really thinking about it. But while I was finding places to put things away, I was forced to really look at the junk I'd gathered over a lifetime.

The clothes and shoes and makeup weren't such a big deal, though I was so pale these days, I hardly ever wore anything but mascara. The books were something else.

My room had, among other things, amazing bookcases built into the corner, and while I was unpacking boxes and putting books away, I realized the gap between my old life and my new one had gotten huge without my noticing. It had been such a crazy summer, I hadn't really noticed that there hadn't been time to do any re-reading of old favorites. And now there never would be.

All my favorites: the Little House series, all of Pat Conroy's work, Emma Holly's erotica, and my cookbook collection—they were useless to me now. Worse than useless… they made me feel bad.

I loved
Beach Music
and
The Prince of Tides
because not only could Pat Conroy write like a son of a bitch, he had the soul of a gourmet chef. The man could make a tomato sandwich sound like an orgasm you ate. And my days of eating tomato sandwiches were long gone.

How many times had I escaped to my room with a book to avoid my stepmother? How many times had I bought a cookbook because the glorious color pictures literally made me drool? But it was done, now. Tom, Luke, Savannah, Dante, Mark, Will, and the Great Santini were all lost to me. Not to mention
The Ail-American Cookie Book, Barefoot Contessa Parties
, and all of Susan Branch's stuff.

I put the books away, spine-side in, so I wouldn't have to look at the titles. Normally I kept too busy to feel bad about being dead, but today wasn't one of those days.

I saw the kid for the first time when I was vacuuming the inside of my closet. This was the third time in five minutes—no way was I just dumping my shoes into a two hundred year old closet that smelled like old wood and dead moths. Thank goodness I didn't have to breathe!

Handi-vac in hand, I backed out of the closet on my knees and nearly bumped into her. She was curled up like a bug in the chair beside the fireplace. One of fourteen. Fireplaces, not chairs. I had no idea how many chairs there were. Anyway, she was watching me and I was so startled I nearly dropped the vacuum.

"Yikes!" I said. "I didn't hear you come in."

"My mama says I'm quiet," she replied helpfully.

"You have no idea. It's tough work, sneaking up on me. Although," I added in a mutter, "more and more people seem to be doing it all the time." I raised my voice so the kid wouldn't get freaked out by the blond weirdo talking to herself. "So, your folks work here?"

"My mama used to."

"Used to? Then what are you—"

"I like your hair."

"Thanks." I patted my blond streaks and tried not to preen. Ah, dead, but I've still got it. "I like yours, too."

She was just about the cutest thing I'd ever seen. She had the face of a patient doe, all wary and cute, with big blue eyes and a spray of freckles across her nose. Her blond, curly hair was pulled back from her face in a blue bow that matched her eyes, and she was wearing striped overalls rolled to the knees, pink anklets… and saddle shoes!

I edged closer to get a better look at her footwear. "Aren't you bored to death?" I asked. "Clunking around in a big house like this? Where's your mom?"

"I like it here now," she replied, after giving my question some thought. "I like it when people are here."

"Well, you're gonna love it now. My friend Jessica hired a fu-uh, an army. Say, sunshine, where'd you get the shoes?"

"My mama bought them for me."

"Where?"

"The shoe store."

Rats. "I like them a lot," I said truthfully. "My name's Betsy."

"I'm Marie. Thanks for talking to me."

"Hey, I just live here, I'm not a rich snobby jerk like you're probably used to. Uh… do you know how to get to the kitchen from here?"

Marie grinned, showing a gap between her front teeth. "Sure. I know all the shortcuts. There's a secret cave between the kitchen and the second dining room!"

"
Second
dining room? Never mind. Onward, Marie. I gotta get some tea in me before I do something somebody'll regret."

Before I could take her hand, I heard thundering footsteps, and then Jessica burst into the room, waving the telephone. "Gotta go—Marquette—Tina's in trouble," she wheezed, then collapsed until she was partially lying on my unmade bed. "Cripes! I think there's a thousand stairs in this place."

"You of all people don't get to complain about how big this place is. What are you talking about, Tina's in trouble?"

"Sinclair—on the phone—" She held it out to me.

I grabbed it. "This better not be a trick," I snarled into the receiver.

"Get here now."

I ran.

It was a good trick, not screaming and then barfing when I saw what had been done to Tina. Luckily, I'd been audited (twice!), and was the child of ugly divorce proceedings, and had loads of practice keeping my dinner down.

"Another one of your tiresome ploys for attention," I said.

Tina tried a smile, and I hoped she'd knock it off soon. Half her face was in tatters. In fact, half of her bad self was in tatters. She floated listlessly in the tub, which was full of pink water.

Don't ask me why, but when you immerse a sick vamp in water and add baking soda, they get better quicker. Amazing! The stuff can make cakes rise and de-stink refrigerators. It made no sense to me, but I was pretty new to the game to be questioning undead physics.

"Jeez…" I croaked the word out, then cleared my throat. "Who did this? Are you—of course you're not okay, but—does it hurt?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"Just that whole tiresome humans killing vamps thing," she replied.

That stung. "Well, shit, Tina, I didn't think they were going after the good ones!" While I was waving my arms around and generally working up a good spate of hysterics, Sinclair appeared with his usual spooky speed and grabbed my wrist.

I had time to say, "Wha—?" before he nicked my wrist with the knife I belatedly noticed he was holding. "Ow!" I said, yanking my wrist away, but it was all for show. It was so fast, and the knife was so sharp, I'd barely felt it. Well, at least he didn't bite me. "You want to ask before you start gouging me?"

Tina turned her head away and ducked under water. "And you stop that!" I said, bending over the tub and gingerly prodding her head. I wiped my wet hand off on my jeans. Yech! "I know what I'm supposed to do, dammit. It's just nice to be asked, is all," I added, glaring at Finklair.

"Stop wasting time," he said, typically stone-faced, but his eyes were kind of squinty. I knew he adored Tina. She had made him, and they had a bond I respected, even if I didn't understand it, and thought it was extremely weird. "Let her feed. Now."

"No," Tina gurgled from the bottom of the tub.

"I said I'd do it," I snapped. "Will you sit up so we can get this over with?"

A bubble appeared, but Tina didn't move.

"This is your fault," Sinclair said coldly. The situation was so alarming, I just now noticed he was wearing cherry red boxers and nothing else. "Now fix it."

"My fault? I'm not the one who decided to give Tina a haircut… all over! Don't get pissed at me. I came as soon as you asked me to. Not that you exactly asked."

His hand clamped onto my shoulder, which instantly went numb. "Tina is well aware of your childish aversion to blood drinking. She's playing the martyr, and I won't have it."

"Hey, I'm with you! Get her out of there and let her chomp away. I'm on your side."

If he'd been alive, his face would have been the color of an old brick. Each word was forced out through his teeth. "She will not obey me in this."

"Oh, so that's why your boxers are in a bunch? Great color, by the way, they really bring out your—ow! Lighten up, I think I just lost all the feeling in my left arm."

"Fix it," he said implacably.

I kicked the tub. "Tina, get out of there."

A sullen glug.

"This is the queen speaking!" I managed not to laugh. Queen of shoes, maybe! "Now sit up, will you?"

"Don't ask," Sinclair hissed in my ear. "Command."

"Stop that, it tickles. Teeee-naaaa!"

She sat up. "I don't want you to," she lied. "You think it's barbaric."

"Stop being such a baby," I said, though she was one hundred percent right. "What's the alternative? You live in the tub like an undead anatomy project and slowly heal over the next six months? The maids will have a fit."

Her nostrils flared and I realized that blood had been trickling down my fingers the whole time I was arguing. I turned around, put my hands on his rock-hard chest, and pushed and kicked and shoved until I finally slammed the bathroom door in his face.

"I really can't stand that guy," I sighed, rolling up my sleeve.

"Liar," she said, and grinned at me.

"Could you not do that until your face grows back? No offense."

"Oh, Majesty," she sighed as I knelt by the tub. "I'm so sorry to ask this of you."

"Don't be a moron. I'm just glad you're alive, so to speak."

She gripped my arm and lapped the blood off my fingers, then sucked on my wrist until I couldn't see tendons or raw wounds, until she was beautiful again. It didn't take long. I was always amazed at how quickly vampires healed. It rarely took more than a few minutes. And, weirdly, my blood sped things up considerably. If Tina had fed off a human, it might have taken the better part of the night to recover. More crap I didn't understand… and frankly, I was afraid to ask too many questions. Tina might answer them.

"So," I said brightly. "Got any other plans for the evening?"

"After a near-death experience, I like to relax by scrubbing a tub."

"I'd help, but forget it. I've got nineteen of my own to worry about."