Undead and Unwary (15 page)

An aside, not to come off as a creepy voyeur (like there was any other kind), but getting a glimpse of Anne Boleyn cutting off Henry VIII’s head while he begged her forgiveness for knocking her up with Queen Elizabeth I was just too good. I wanted to linger and say, “Oh, so we’ve learned a little more about biology in the last five hundred years, you fat fuck? That’s right, it’s the sperm that dictates a prince or a princess, and the sperm comes from the guy! Meaning you! I know you don’t know who I am! Your hair is stupid! Hey, Anne, how about you pull another Red Queen and off with his head again?” Luckily I had been a model of restraint and just walked on without commenting.

My point, I just now remembered, was that on
that
particular trip, Hell was like a hive. The biggest, most complex, and fucked-up hive I’d ever seen. Each little cell contained someone’s personal Hell and they stacked up so high and so wide and the events in the cells just went on and on . . . boggling, the whole thing. Just trying to ponder everything going on was enough to make anyone’s head pound. Glimpses were all I got, and all I wanted. On that particular trip, anyway.

On another trip, Hell was a waiting room with ready-to-burn-out blinking fluorescent lighting, and the only thing to read was years-out-of-date magazines. Unpleasant, sure, but again—a concept I could grasp, context I was familiar with.

So maybe that was the key. Maybe the trick was to set it up however we want, in the best way we can think of, using relatable symbolism to help our (okay, my) tiny minds grasp ungraspable concepts.

Okay. Well. I’d never tried to run Hell, but I’d been fired more than once, and I’d had to take over more than once from someone who’d been fired. And the first thing I always did in a new job was . . .

“How did Satan do it?”

. . . figure out what my predecessor did, then refine. “I don’t suppose she left us lists. Or suggestions for organization. You know, like how when you’re in a new job, the person you replaced left contact info and lots of memos explaining day-to-day ops. Anything like that around?”

“At last, intelligent observations,” the Ant muttered, as if I didn’t have super vamp hearing and wasn’t standing four feet away. “I knew if I waited through enough years you were bound to—”

“Oh, shut up. Look, you were the old boss’s secretary or whatever—”

“Yes, or whatever,” came the dry reply.

“—so you can take us through her routines and kind of go over the day-to-day running of Hell, right? That’s why you got right up in my face the second I showed up.”

“There’s no place I would rather be less than right up in your face,” she sniffed, “and you know perfectly well why I was the first one to show.” Ugh, so true. Last time I was here, everyone I thought of eventually showed up, called to me by the force of my bitching. “I’ve got very little interest in helping
you
,” she added, all disdainful and pissy, but the fidgeting gave her away. In Hell, as in life, she was inappropriately dressed a good decade younger than her age: too-tight navy blue miniskirt, polyester blouse in an eye-watering floral print (yellow roses against an orangey-red background or, as I like to call it,
ow, my brain
), black wedge pumps (blech, wedges, they’re ugly and they always remind me of the terrible disco era which
never should have been allowed to happen
), de rigueur black stockings. Bright blond hair piled high, too much green eyeliner and shadow, lipstick just a little too orange and bright to be flattering. If it had been anyone else, I would have assumed she was forced to dress like that as penance for her many sins in her wicked life, but it wasn’t anyone else and I knew she thought she looked perfect.

But she still couldn’t keep her hands still. When she got nervous or edgy, she’d run her hands all over her clothes and hair, sort of patting with fluttering fingers to make sure everything was in place. Which would be understandable if she did it once or twice. But those hands were constantly moving. It was dizzying.

“What’s got you so—” I began, deeply suspicious, when my phone buzzed against my hip.

Wait, what?

I plucked it out and stared. A text from the vampire king:
I trust all is well. Return at once if you require assistance.
Classic Sink Lair. I ran it through my translator and got,
I’m sure you’re seconds away from an epic screwup so I’m ready to haul your delectable ass out of the fire and won’t tease you about it later except I probably will for a little while and I lurrrrrv you sooo much!

Awww. What a sweetie.

The implications took a few seconds to hit, but when they did: “Whoa.” I had been slow to embrace texting. Not to go on an old-lady rant or anything (if you’re over thirty, thirty is the new twenty; if you’re under, thirty is the new ninety), but texting was pretty much destroying civilization. As with Jessica’s bed, I’d been gradually sucked in (I only started hauling a cell phone around in the last three years) and even now, I sent maybe five texts a month, and those along the lines of
How can we be out of ice AGAIN? What is wrong with all of us?

But my telepathic link with Sinclair didn’t work in Hell. Which he knew, and had handled with his usual pragmatism.

“Whoa,” I said again, not at my creative best. “I can get texts in Hell? AT&T, I have once again underestimated your vast scope and reach.”

“Yes, the antitrust laws were put in place for a reason,” the Ant replied. “Monopolies aren’t good. Unless you’re running Hell,” she added quickly in response to my dumbfounded expression. “Then they’re fine.”

“No, I just—I had no idea you knew what antitrust laws were.” I myself was a little vague on the subject. Something about making companies play fair, right? Hell didn’t need antitrust
anything
. Hell didn’t have to compete with any other entity.

“I had an existence outside of
this
,” she snapped back, gesturing vaguely at all the nothing.

“Yeah, I know the words to that song,” I muttered in reply. “I pretty much
wrote
that song.” But back to more important things: what to text back. A smiley face? A winking smiley face? Emoticons were a bit lacking when you factored Hell into the equation. I settled for
All’s well so far.
I would not abbreviate. I would not OMG or LOL, no matter how TSTL I was.
You
was never
u
.
Are
was never
r
. Nevernevernever. “Okaaaaay. That’s done. Also, how the hell was that even possible?”

Identical shrugs. Great. The so-called experts didn’t know, either. Was it how Hell interpreted my bond with Sinclair? Was it like the shoes that didn’t exist—it was a tool that helped me figure out the un-figure-out-able? Or did it simply mean that Hell had AT&T towers? Oh, my, yes, we were the perfect bunch to move in and take over. Nothing could go wrong. It made me think of a lost friend, Cathie, who’d had that same thought shortly before being murdered in her driveway and, the minute she figured out what had happened to her, haunted me until I found her killer.

“Never mind,” I said, trying for comforting and managing to be just dismissive. “We’ll figure it out later. Or we never will.”

Laura was nodding. “Yes. I agree. It’s probably that one.”

“Um. Which one?”

“I’m not saying,” she replied with a stubborn shake of her head. “You’ll get even more irritated.”

The Ant made a rude noise and, much as it pained me, she was corrected in her snorting. “I’d love to take offense and debate that, but when you’re right you’re right.” I sighed. “So. Now what?”

“Now you give me a hug, you silly bitch,” said the dead woman behind me. I turned, surprised, and saw a ghost I’d thought was gone forever. Unlike every other surprise in Hell, this one was welcome.

 CHAPTER  

FOURTEEN

“Cathie!” I couldn’t hide my delight, and my kind-of pal grinned back. She looked different than the last time I’d seen her, well over a year before. In life she’d been a sallow, occasionally depressed blonde who had never done anything and never been anywhere (her own admission). Later, she was the second-to-last victim of the Driveway Killer.
⁵
(Yeah, I know, lame name. The peach parlor was the Peach Parlor and the serial killer who snatched blondes out of their driveways was the Driveway Killer. Sometimes Minnesotans are not creative.)

She’d announced her presence one random day by slipping into the backseat of my car and scaring the living shit out of me when I checked the rearview. Helpful tip: screaming at someone no one else can see is no way to convince people you don’t need meds. That was also the day I learned never again to check my blind spot.

When I’d last seen Cathie, she was wearing the outfit she’d been murdered in, a faded green SeaWorld sweatshirt with the overstretched sleeves pushed to her elbows, black stretch pants, and athletic socks. No shoes or coat, which wasn’t a big deal, she’d explained, since she no longer felt the cold, but still left her feeling not quite put together. Sock-footed for eternity; welcome to my worst nightmare. Cathie had a much better attitude, though. “On the other hand,” she’d added, cheering up a little when she realized I could see and hear her, “I never have to shovel my driveway again. So who cares if I’m in yesterday’s socks for eternity?”

After our awkward first meeting (I had so many of those it was almost boring), Cathie had nagged me until I helped find her killer. This was
completely
terrifying but ended up pretty great, since we managed to save the last victim before the killer could tool up on her. Also, Laura had gone all “from Hell’s heart I stab at thee” and killed him. In his own basement! That was my first hint that Miss Let’s Read from the Hymnal had a bit of a dark side. Which I should have seen coming because . . . y’know . . .
Anti
-Christ.

“You look great!” This wasn’t saying something nice to someone you haven’t seen in a while to prove you noticed their absence; she really did. Khakis, a pressed red button-down, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail (in life her ponytails were disasters trapped in scrunchies), black and tan oxfords. The pants were too long for me to check out her sock situation but I was betting Cathie had that covered, too. Her hands were stuffed in her pants pockets past her wrists as she slouched comfortably in the big bunch of nothing that was Hell right now. “Really great!”

I got an eye roll for my trouble, which was fair. “Ramp down the shocked surprise, will ya? Wasn’t my fault I got murdered on laundry day. Besides, once you guys took care of my little ‘if you wrong us, shall we not revenge’ problem, I sure as shit wasn’t going to haunt the earth in granny panties and a sweatshirt.”

“The world is grateful,” the Ant muttered, then she pulled Laura aside so they could whisper together, which wasn’t alarming
at all
.

“Yeah, but that’s how you looked the whole time . . .” I trailed off, remembering (if this was a movie, there’d be a flashback complete with memory-jarring soundtrack, a perfect time to go for a snack). One of the things I’d liked about Cathie was that, even after I’d solved her problem, she hung around. The others had all been “good job, thanks, quicker next time” and poof!

But Cathie was in no rush to move on, wasn’t sure what her options were, and was dismayed to discover I had no idea. So she just hung out to chat and occasionally ran interference by dealing with some of the needier ghosts demanding my attention. It was pretty great; Cathie was one of those women who, after you talk to her for about a half hour, you know you’re going to be pretty good friends with. As Heinlein put it, “You’re an old friend we haven’t known very long.” I’m not a sci-fi fan, normally, but Heinlein did manage to write one book that didn’t utterly suck.
⁶

“Hell, no, I don’t still look like that. You know those weren’t actual clothes, right? And this . . .” She glanced down at her business casual attire. “This isn’t a shirt and these aren’t khakis and this—” Turning to show me, she then turned back. “That’s not a clip holding up my hair.”

“Impressive,” I said, because it was. I’ve noticed a lot of dead people never figure that out. Or if they do, they’ve got no interest in taking advantage of it. Cathie could teach the newly dead a thing or two, even more impressive when you consider she was pretty newly dead herself . . . not even five years gone. “How’d you find me? How’d you even know I’d be here?”

Indifferent shrug. “Everybody knows.” Which wasn’t
too
terrifying. “And what are you asking me for, Betsy? You’re the one who summoned me.”

“Nuh-
uh
.”

Another eye roll. “Really, vampire queen? ‘Nuh-uh’? You don’t think Hell’s bad enough without you talking like you never escaped the trauma of middle school?”

“It
was
traumatic.” I managed not to whine. Barely. “Besides, what’s so bad about nothing?” I bitched, gesturing to all the nothing.

“Not having a clue what comes next,” she replied so quickly and firmly it was obvious she’d been thinking about it. “And like I said—you
summoned me.”

“But I—” Then I realized, which must have shown all over my face, because . . .

“The light dawns! It’s dim and flickering and will probably burn out any second, but it’s definitely dawning for now. Better think fast before it blows.”

I ignored the on-the-nose cattiness. And the fact that, once again, someone I might have wanted to scare at some point (just a little!) had absolutely no fear of me. It was as thrilling as it was aggravating.

“Aw, nuts,” I said glumly. “I get it.”

Cathie leaned forward and fluttered her eyelashes while clasping her hands together. “Is it possible? Can it be true?”

“Oh, shut up. I was thinking about you, and there you were.” Fuck and double fuck!
Don’t think about Jessica’s parents don’t think about any of the many vampires I’ve killed don’t think don’t think don’t don’t don’t