Undead and Unforgiven (23 page)

CHAPTER

FORTY

FROM THE PRIVATE BLOG OF WILL MASON

The G-Spot

February 28

I went back! And nobody killed me! And I'm going back tomorrow!

From the beginning. I couldn't sleep that night, thinking about the man who'd saved me. Not a human, not a vampire, not a ghost. What, then? What was most amazing: I didn't care. Well, I cared, but not as much as you'd think; I didn't want to classify him, I just wanted
him
. In my bed or just talking about movies, grocery shopping, or having coffee, whatever he wanted to give me, that was what I wanted to take.

But I had to be careful. I had to convince him I wasn't
after a story. And that was the tricky part. Because he didn't know what I was, either.

I'd been watching the mansion like a pathetic stalker when a car pulled in and drove around the back. I followed (no security system? odd) and saw a smart-looking older woman climb out and walk up to the door. She let herself in (key? or unlocked?) and after a minute I did, too.

Dark, except for the strip of light beneath a door at the far end of the room. It smelled like laundry, mud, and wet dog. I could faintly hear a conversation, took a step forward . . . and stopped.

Growls that managed to be shrill and menacing (and short; the dogs sounded big but couldn't have been very tall) came from nowhere, so I froze in place for a bit. After a long moment (a minute? an hour?), I took a cautious step toward the crack of light. Nothing. Another step. Nothing. Four more steps: growls.

It went on like that for a while. The dogs hiding in the dark would warn me, then get used to me and let me move forward, then warn me again. I couldn't ask about them; none of my sources were here. They were letting me approach . . . but on their timetable.

Subjectively I was in that room for a day and a half. (Later I found out it had been just over an hour.) I also found out that the old lady had come to ask Betsy not to kill her dad. But Betsy the so-called vampire queen had no interest in killing her dad, or her sister, even. Given that her sister was busy either exposing her or telling horrendous lies about her, that was a pretty decent reaction.

So, already worth the trip. They wouldn't kill me for overhearing that someone
wouldn't
kill their family, right? Someone who valued life so much he'd save a stranger wouldn't allow that.

Right?

After a while I realized the old lady was going to leave the way she came in. I realized this when she opened the door in her coat with her car keys in her hand. Before I could calm her down (“I'm not here to steal!”) or explain (“I have a crush on the guy with the broken leg whose last name I don't know.”) she was on me. She grabbed me by my ear (who
does
that?) and hauled me into the next room, which I discovered, as I blinked painfully to adjust to the light, was the kitchen.

“No wonder the dogs didn't want to stay in here,” was the first comment.

“We can kill him, right? Breaking and entering?”

“It's just entering!” I said. Okay, squealed. “Please, I just want to see him— Ow-ow-ow!”

“See
who
?” This from the so-called vampire queen.

“Me.” Marc sighed. Then: “Uh, it
is
me, right?”

“You know this man, Marc?” The old lady released the pincher grip on my ear and I groaned in relief and rubbed rubbed rubbed. Who knew something so far above my waist was so susceptible to pain?

“He's one of the reporters we keep sending on their way.” This from Eric Sinclair, the husband/vampire king. His deep silky voice was terrifying. So were his height and build—he looked solid, like he worked out, and was almost a head taller than me. He had perfected the art of long-distance looming; he wasn't even close to me and I still felt crowded. His face was pale. His eyes burned. “And yes, we are well within our legal rights to kill him on sight.”

“You won't, though.” I coughed and tried again.
Less squeak this time, Will.
“You don't need that kind of publicity.”

“If no one knows you were here, no one will know this was where your trail went cold.” This in a voice so matter-of-fact it was terrifying. People had said “I guess I'll have fries” with more emotion.

“Knock it off, sir.” Yes, hardly any squeak that time.
“If she won't kill her dad for helping her sister betray her, she's not going to let you kill a random blogger.”

“Good heavens, how long were you in there?” The old lady's fingers twitched and I shied away from her.

“Not the ear again!” I shouted, then tried to calm down. My ear felt puffy and hot and I was sure it was swelling.
Please let Marc think cauliflower ear is sexy.
“Look, you've nothing to fear from me.”

“Yes.” This from Mr. Sinclair, who was smiling at me in a way I didn't like at all. Any other time, someone built like that giving me his full attention would be heady. Not now, though. It was just frightening. “That's true.”

“Not because I'm an insignificant bug compared to a vampire king. I'm not here to write about you, any of you.” I rubbed my ear and glared at the old lady. “Well, maybe you, ma'am.”

“Try it, boy,” she snapped back. “And it's Dr. Taylor.”

“Please, he saved me.” I was trying not to whine. “I just wanted to see him again. He didn't have to lift a finger but he did. He hurt himself to help me for
no reason
. And then he blew it off like it was nothing.”

“It—” the pretty blonde in the corner began, the first time she'd spoken. She looked about seventeen, which she probably wasn't. “It was—”

“It
wasn't
nothing. He broke his leg for me.”

Betsy, she of the vampire kingdom and blond highlights, snapped her fingers. “Son of a bitch! Your limp!” She whirled on Marc, whose dazed expression hadn't changed since Dr. Taylor dragged me into the kitchen ear-first. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Marc snapped out of his trance.
Please let it be a sex trance brought on by cauliflower ear.
“I tried! You blew it off to take the dogs for a walk and then my leg was—and then I kind of forgot about it.”

“Because your broken leg got better,” I said and got a
bunch of glares in reply. “Because you're not human. Any of you.” I glared at Dr. Taylor. “Well, maybe you.”

“Watch your mouth, boy.”

“I'm not a boy,” I said with the little dignity I had left. “I'm almost thirty.” This prompted the little blonde and Mr. Sinclair to burst out laughing. So they were significantly older than thirty. “And you don't have to worry about me. I knew about vampires before your sister outed you.”

“Oh?” The little blonde came closer. Her body language was pure deference, but her eyes missed nothing. I wondered how many people looked at her curves and her sweet face and never saw the knife. Or the fangs. “Would you like a drink while you explain yourself?”

“Please.” I didn't even have to think about it. Whatever I needed to do to stay as long as I could. If she'd offered to give me a tattoo, I would have agreed just as quickly. Did they want their basement cleaned? Did the dogs need baths? Anything. “Hey, are you guys drinking smoothies? That's not very sexy-scary. You're going to ruin vampire reps everywhere.”

This time Betsy laughed. “Want one?”

“Sure. Raspberry and . . . strawberry!”

“And blackberry,” she added glumly.

“Uck, those things are all seeds. But I'm sure they're delicious in drinks,” I added.

She beamed, which made everything weirder. Out of everything I'd done and said, dissing blackberries made her warm to me?

Who cared? Whatever it took.

In a few minutes Dr. Taylor had left, so I could relax a bit. Marc pointed out the idiocy of being afraid of a human and not the vampires, or whatever Marc was, and I replied that I couldn't explain it, it just
was
. This pleased them all, but I've no idea why.

“I don't believe in vampires because of what I overheard,
or what your sister said,” I explained, sipping at the best smoothie I'd ever had in my life (the secret, the little blonde explained, was real vanilla and fresh fruit). “I always believed in them.”

“Why?” Betsy asked, and though she'd warmed to me a bit, she was clearly still suspicious. So, not a
complete
idiot.

“My sources told me.”

“And they are . . . ?”

“Spirits.” She just blinked, so I elaborated. “Ghosts. I see dead people, pardon the line.”

“See?” she cried, pointing at me, and then at them for some reason. “That's how screwed our lives are. That thing he just said? Didn't sound insane!” She stopped pointing and calmed down. “You should be careful when you say something we can actually test.”

“It's true. When I found out where you lived, I went to the Griggs Mansion and checked with my sources and they confirmed you're a vampire.” I looked at Marc and then looked away. It was too tempting to just stare helplessly at him. “They didn't know what you are, though.”

“Well, that makes sense.” Marc, who'd spent most of the time looking stunned, finally warmed to the conversation. “It's considered the most haunted house in the Twin Cities. People have seen—let me think—a maid, a gardener, a Civil War general—”

“Yeah, that's bullshit. 'Scuse me, ma'am,” I added politely to the little blonde who looked like a teen but wasn't. “He's a Union soldier who deserted.”

“And you know this because . . .” Tina (she'd introduced herself while pouring my smoothie) paused delicately.

“He told me himself.” I looked around at all of them. “It's all on my website.”

“The G-Spot,” the vampire queen said and snickered. At my beleaguered sigh she added, “Simmer down, Haley
Joel Osment. If that's what you're gonna name something, you have to be resigned to getting shit for it.”

“Fair enough.”

“Do you know why we've been sitting here for an hour drinking smoothies instead of running you off or draining you dry?”

“No.” I gulped. “I know it's not because you're worried about negative publicity.”

“I could give a shit. If I thought you were a danger to anyone I loved, you'd be so much cooling meat on a slab somewhere. I haven't disappeared you because I believe you when you say you're grateful to Marc.”

“I am! He didn't have to help me. And he's the only man I've ever met who has a bigger crush on John Cusack than I do.” I have
no
idea why I said that. It just slipped out.

“Okay, I'm not commenting on that at all, or we'll be here all night.”

“John Cusack?” Tina asked while Marc groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Really?”

“But listen, I See Dead People: if it turns out we're wrong—if the only reason you're being so friendly is because you're trying to get your scoop—”

I giggled, but stopped when she scowled. “Sorry. You know it's not 1957, right?”

“Shut up. If I find out you're using him to get info on us, unbelievably terrible things will happen to you.” She topped off my smoothie. “But in the meantime.” She dropped a whole strawberry on top as a garnish: plop! “Tell me about your sources.”

So I did. I figured the more they knew about me, the more they'd relax and the longer I could stay. And I was showing off a little for Marc, who always looked away when I glanced at him, but whose gaze I felt when my attention was on one of the others.

I told them about having no idea that the many playmates
of my childhood were dead until school started and none of the other kids could see them. I told them about the multiple visits with the school psychologist, about never knowing my mom, at ten losing my dad to cancer, and the devastation of never seeing their ghosts. I told them about using the money Dad had left me to try to find other people who were like me, and never succeeding. I talked and talked and they didn't interrupt me once, or laugh, or even look skeptical.

At one point Betsy excused herself and came back about ten minutes later with a slim blonde (Minnesota could be a bit homogeneous) who had a ponytail and a cynical expression. Betsy didn't refer to the woman in any way, and neither did the others, so I ignored her, too.

“And then Marc pushed me out of the way of a news van, even though he had every reason to stand back and watch me get clipped, and I snuck back in to thank him.”

“Thank you for explaining,” Tina said.

“You really— It wasn't necessary,” Marc muttered. “It was no big deal.”

“Don't say that,” I said. “It was a big deal to me.” I took a breath and forced it out. “I think you're wonderful. I want to know all about you. I don't care that you aren't human.”

“Are you?” Betsy asked. She seemed honestly curious, and the suspicion seemed to be gone. She certainly didn't have to worry about me hurting her—any of them. I was well aware that I was at their mercy; it wasn't the other way around. “Human, I mean.”

“Sure. Being able to see ghosts doesn't translate to, I don't know, werewolf or something.” I forced a laugh, then stopped when I saw they weren't even smiling. Oh, God. Were werewolves a thing, too? I made a mental note to ask my sources.

“If we aren't going to drink his blood until he dies of shock,” Sinclair said, effortlessly terrifying me, “we
do
have business to attend to elsewhere.”

“Yep, yep.” Betsy got up off her stool and it looked like— Yes! They were going to leave me! With Marc! Who wasn't moving off his stool! All the dangers and ear wrenching I'd endured were worth it. But . . .

“Aren't you going to ask me about the ghost standing by the stove? About five foot five, blond ponytail, khakis, red sweater, scowling?”