Undead and Unforgiven (20 page)

(Perhaps it's best not to push, my love.)

and we were following him into the mudroom when he disappeared. It had been a thirty-second encounter that rattled the shit out of us. Sinclair, who had lost a twin to an ugly death, said what we were thinking: “My suggestion is we not mention this particular iteration to Jessica or Dick.”

And we haven't.

“Now what's this?” Jessica said, gently turning her son's arm to get a better look at a long scrape, a red line standing out against his golden skin. What is it about the undersides of kids' chubby arms that makes you just want to devour them? “What happened, baby?”

“The cat we don't have yet scratched me,” came the cheerful reply. “It was turr'ble.”

“He cried,” the girl added.

“I did not! But I need more cookies, Mommy; it makes me upset to talk about it.”

“Oh, nice try,” I said with pure admiration. “But you have no idea how heartless your mother—”

“
One
more, and that's it,” Jessica warned.

“—can be in her ruthless determination to— What?”

A chorus of yays.

“Dammit, Jess, you're poaching on my territory,” I argued. “I'm the fun aunt who hands out cookies and you're the hard-ass mom who's no fun at all but they'll appreciate it when they get older while secretly loving me more!”

“
Two
cookies,” Jessica said with total bitchy malicious intent, and beamed at the stereo cheers. I was marshaling my arguments (“No,
you
shut up!”) when the twins slipped down from their stools and went into the mudroom to play with Fur and Burr. (That was another thing: they always knew who Fur and Burr were as well. A psycho-paranormal-ologist (if there was such a thing) would have a field day.

“And furthermore, as reigning Cool Aunt, it's my God-given right to ignore your fascist toddler rules in order to—”

“Betsy.”

“Dammit!” They'd slipped away again, without us noticing again. Again! The only things in the mudroom were Fur and Burr, the washer and dryer, and two wrinkled newborns.

Until this started happening, the puppies had had the run of the mudroom, their own place to nap, play, and poop in the rare moments when there wasn't someone around to spend time with them. After an eternity of bitching, Sinclair had blocked off a portion of it for the Amazing Disappearing Reappearing Babies. Sometimes when the babies reappeared, Fur's and Burr's shrill yaps would alert the household.

“God, it's like living with tiny twin Batmans.”

“Yes. Well. No one said being an honorary aunt would be easy.” Jessica had picked up Thing One and I'd grabbed Thing Two, and now she turned to face me head-on. “We have to talk.”

Shit.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-THREE

I saw at once Marc and Tina knew what was up, because they sort of swooped in, grabbed babies and puppies, and swooped out, bound for parts unknown. I looked at my closest, dearest friend and raised my eyebrows.

“Like that, is it?”

“Like what?” Dick had just walked into the kitchen, home from work. He'd stopped long enough to lock his gun in one of the safes (his weird babies had forced extensive babyproofing pretty much immediately), but hadn't changed clothes: gray slacks, white dress shirt with a brown and blue tie, chocolate-colored jacket tailored to accommodate his swimmer's shoulders and nine-millimeter Glock. His hair—short, blond, military cut—was mussed (which was amazing, given the lack of length), and his blue eyes were slightly less exhausted than usual. He gave Jessica a kiss and settled on the stool beside her.

“Do people at the Cop Shop know we've got reporters sniffing around?” I asked, honestly curious.

“First of all, we prefer ‘Pig Paddy.' Second,” he continued, ignoring my gasp of horror (I had great respect for the police and would no sooner refer to the good people at 367 Grove Street as pigs as I'd pair flip-flops with a formal), “a couple of the guys asked me about it but I blew it off. None of the suits were worried enough about it to want to see me.”
Yet
was unspoken. “And I'm glad to keep doing that until Tina and Sinclair figure out how to thwart the Antichrist—”

“And Betsy, too,” Jessica said with touching, hilarious loyalty.

“You're adorable!” I cried. No one in the history of human events had better friends than I did. Especially when you considered what I put them through, consciously and otherwise. Borrowing clothes without asking didn't begin to cover it.

“—but it's a stopgap measure at best. If this outing-the-vamps thing gains any momentum, and Marc's pretty sure it will, we'll need a new plan. I'll have to explain that, yep, I live with vampires, they're definitely real—oh, did I not mention that?”

“You're right,” I said, nodding.

“Which, uh.” Dick coughed into his fist and darted a glance at Jessica. “Brings us to this.”

“You're moving out.”

“Wait, hear us out! It's not that we don't— Yes. That's the plan.”

“As it should be. No, I'm serious.” I rushed ahead in the face of their astonished expressions. “You're a family now; it's not just about the two of you.”

“We're all a family. Everyone here.” Jessica reached out blindly, found Dick's hand, squeezed. He squeezed back. “Better than any family I had growing up.”

“Yes, but now you've got your weird babies to think about. It was one thing when there wasn't any media scrutiny. If the Big Bad of the week showed up here, he'd have to get past multiple vampires, a zombie, the occasional visiting werewolf, puppies that wouldn't hesitate to pee on them, and an armed cop before he'd even
see
the babies. But who knows what'll happen now? The reporters will be back. The looky-loos will follow. Heck, Marc chased a few of them away already today. We'll have to lock it down, deny everything, maybe even disappear a few people, God forbid, or . . .” I trailed off.

“Or?” Dick prompted.

I shook off my thought; now wasn't the time. “Or not. But either way, too many unknown varieties, y'know?”

“Variables. Yes.” Jessica shifted on her stool. “I have to say, I thought you'd take this a little harder.” She glanced at the Barnes and Noble bag she'd brought in with her, but made no move to touch it. “I thought there'd be threats and promises and at least one tantrum, and maybe bribery.”

“Don't get me wrong, Jess. I don't want you to go. I want you and Dick and your weird babies to stay here forever. But like I said—and like you two
know
: it's not just about you. It's barely about me.”
Wow
, that felt weird to say. “You've got to put your as-yet-unnamed babies ahead of everything else.”

“That's very—”

“It's just I love you,” I continued, while Dick made a funny coughing noise, the way tough guys do when they don't want you to know they're tearing up. “It'll be hard to see you go. We've been on-and-off roomies since we were . . . what, nineteen?”

“Twenty,” she said, smiling. “Since the U bounced you just before the end of sophomore year.”

“They really should warn people when they register:
if you set so much as
one
measly accidental fire while drunk, suddenly it's an expellable offense.”

“The early signs of living with you being a terrible idea were all there,” she replied, grinning. “But, alas, ignored.”

Undeterred, I went on. “I love living with you. And it's handy having a cop around, I won't lie. I shouldn't have complained all those times about having all these roommates. I'm sorry I did that.”

“You never meant it. We always knew that.”

“Yeah, I gathered, what with how none of you ever left despite the power of my bitchery. I don't want you guys to go, but the weird babies come first.”

“You've
got
to stop calling them that.”

“The minute they stop being weird, I will.”

I meant it. All of it: the smart thing would be for them to get gone, and I'd be a terrible, selfish friend to try to prevent that. Frankly I was surprised it had taken them this long to figure it out.

But I couldn't help thinking about all her other weird babies, the kindergartners and the high schoolers and all the twins in between in all their delightful strange iterations (the Antichrist's word of the week was
taunting
; mine was
iterations
). They were never surprised to find themselves in the mansion kitchen. They always knew where everything was. They always knew who we were. They always had thorough, intimate knowledge of the mansion and everything and everyone in it.

So I didn't think Jessica and Dick and the babies would be gone very long. Either something or someone would drive them back or eventually they'd feel safe enough to return on their own.
Please, God, let it be the latter.

“Are you going to hire help?” I asked. “I mean, what about when your weird babies do that weird thing your weird babies do?”

Jess looked at me for a long moment without speaking,
and Dick wouldn't look at me at all. She opened her mouth to reply, when I figured it out. “You think they won't do that if they don't live here. With me.”

Identical shrugs. “It's just a theory.”

I wasn't sure how I felt about that. I couldn't blame Jess and Dick for craving normality, but I sort of loved the weird thing their weird babies did. However: not my call.

“Marc's promised to come by and help us while pretending he's not in it to experiment on our children.”

“Aww. That's sweet. Do you have a place picked out?” Again they wouldn't look at me. “Oh. You do. You've had this in mind for a while. It's okay, I'm not mad.” Hurt, crushed, despairing, but not mad. “I was wondering that it even took you this long to decide. But it didn't take you this long.”

“It's just a little house in Stillwater. Not even half an hour from here.”

Usually when a multimillionaire says something faux deprecating about his place, like “aw, it's just a cottage—a glorified shack, really,” after the urge to kick him in the shins passes, you find out the glorified shack is a mansion on Woolsey Lane on Lake Minnetonka. But Jess was never a fan of flaunting the millions her parents had left her. The money represented the worst of childhoods, with a sexually abusive father and an enabling mother.

Until she'd bought the mansion for all of us to live in, she and I shared a two-bedroom condo in Apple Valley. In college she lived in a studio apartment that was just a little bigger than her mother's walk-in closet. She was one of those people who never buy a luxury car, because she didn't care about how her car looked, but how it ran. If it got her from point A to point B with a minimum of fuss, she didn't care if it was a covered wagon.

“White Pine Way,” Jess continued, “four bedrooms.”
Which made sense; the babies needed a room and she needed an office. I knew the area a bit. White Pine Way meant new construction, not quite as big or pricey as a McMansion. Compared to the mansion she was departing, it
was
a shack.

“When—”

“End of the week.”

“Oh.”
Too soon! I don't like change! Can't we ditch the babies and go get pedis? Remember when our biggest problem was our neighbor borrowing kitchen stuff and never bringing it back?
“Well, that's great. Need help moving?”

“We've got it covered.” That was Marc, who had doubtless listened at the door and, when he didn't hear shrieking or the
clang!
of me braining Dick with a frying pan, had come back in, with Tina and Sinclair behind them. Sinclair's brow was adorably furrowed and he was lugging an infant; Tina had apparently forced it on him, as she had her laptop in one hand and her phone in the other.

“Tina explained.”

“Wait, Tina
and
Marc
and
you guys all knew before they—” I forced myself to stop. “Never mind, not about me, totally fine.” If I kept saying it wasn't about me, I might eventually believe it.

“I am sorry you feel you must leave us, dear,” he told her, then turned to Dick. “But we quite understand your reasons.”

“Thanks,” Dick said, returning Sinclair's handshake. “We're sorry to go, but under the circumstances . . .”

“Of course.”

Are you bearing this, my own?

I don't like change, Sinclair!

I know it well.

“It's not completely terrible,” Jessica said, smiling and handing me the B&N bag. Because a book totally makes up for my best friend having to leave me because her family was in danger. Blech.

“Thanks,” I said automatically. “I'll read it right away, maybe.”

“Open it, dumbass.” This said in the kindest of tones, so I obeyed. To my surprise, there were no books. The edges I'd felt were shoe boxes. Two of them! “Two of them!”

“It could be a cruel trick,” Marc offered. “The boxes could be full of travel guides.”

“Don't you joke about that
ever
.” I pulled both boxes out, plopped them on the counter, flipped the top off one, yowled in delight. “Manolo Blahnik ‘Tayler' d'Orsay pumps! I wanted these so bad, but I couldn't decide between black and . . .” On a hunch I flipped the other lid. “Bone!” I was beyond yowling. All I could manage was thrilled gurgling. At nearly eight hundred bucks a pop, this was a pretty decent reverse housewarming gift. “Oh my God, thank you! Tina, I'm sorry! But cripes, bone
and
black!”

“Totally understandable, dread queen, think nothing of it.” This with an admirably straight face.

“This doesn't mean I'm not sad about you leaving,” I explained, and I was doing so from the floor, because I'd promptly sat and started releasing the shoes from their prisons of box and tissue paper, while also wrenching my socks off so I could yank the new shoes on my willing feet. If feet could feel emotions and be happy, mine were. “Because I am. But this makes it slightly—
slightly
—easier to— Damn, how great do these look?” I'd slipped them on and now stretched out my legs to admire them.

“I don't get it,” Dick said. “They're black high heels. I'm glad you're glad, but they're black high heels. There's a million of them. You've got at least five pairs yourself.”

“Oh, Dick, you adorable moron, if I have to explain then you'll never get it. And they're black
and
bone high heels.” How to tell him they'd always look great, they'd go with almost everything, that I'd wear them all the time for that reason alone, but even better, I'd wear them
because every time I saw them I would remember how much my friend loved me.

“That makes sense.”

“Didn't realize that was out loud.” I'd clambered back to my feet with a helpful yank from Marc. “Maybe if you guys get some peace and quiet in the new place you'll be able to think up names for the babies.”

“We have. Almost forgot to mention it.” Dick retrieved his son/daughter from a relieved-looking Sinclair. “Jess is filing the paperwork this week.”

“Well?” What would it be? They'd ignored my helpful suggestions (Salt and Pepper, Pepsi and Coke, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Batman and Robin, Frick and Frack, Polar and Bipolar . . .) and swore they'd come to a decision soon.

“Oh, sorry.” Dick had been smelling his baby's head, and who could blame him? When they weren't pooping, they smelled terrific (the same could be said of all of us in the mansion). “It's Elizabeth and Eric.”

“That's nice.” Ugh. At least it wasn't Maeve and Mable. Or Tommy and Teeny. Or James and Jenny.

“Not even you're this dim,” Marc said. “Are you?”

“Hey, I've been given a buttload to process in less than a week, so why don't you— Oh.” They named their weird babies after me! (And Sinclair.) “Ohhhhh.”

“An honor,” Sinclair said, smiling. “Truly. Thank you.”

“Don't cry,” Dick warned me. “I always cry when you do. And you cry a lot: when the Antichrist betrayed you, when Macy's didn't have anything ‘cute' in your shoe size that time, when Marc killed himself, when we ran out of ice . . . I've bawled more in the last year than in the last ten.”

“Shut up! 'Mnot crying,” I sniffled. “Allergies.” That ought to fool him. “And—and I'm honored, too.” I leaned over and hugged Jessica. I didn't even mind the spit-up on her shoulder.

“Who else would we name them after?” she replied,
squeezing back. “Dick and I never would have met if you hadn't become a vampire, and you wouldn't be here if you hadn't married Sinclair.”