Undead and Unwary (33 page)

The poor thing, a redhead of medium height with pale pink lipstick, smeared eyeliner, and a strained expression, scurried past me, whipped out her keys, quickly got the door open, and darted through.

I pressed the intercom button for Laura’s apartment again. “Wow, your neighbor sure can move when she wants. It’s like she thought I was a vampire or something. Speaking of, I haven’t fed in days. D’you have any neighbors keeping you up late? Is the building manager a pain in your ass? Say the word and I’ll start to slurp.”

Bzzzzzzz!

I smirked and opened the door. Sure, I could have broken into the place, but I was trying to be subtle. Subtle without the hard
b
sound. And the crack about feeding got me thinking. I hadn’t fed in days, since I usually liked to snack with Sinclair (or on Sinclair). We tended to go trolling for rapists together as a way to keep our love alive. I was thirsty, I was almost always thirsty, but not (as Tina put it once, after which I begged her to find another way of putting it) gagging for it. (Why a Southern belle had picked up Brit slang I was determined never to discover.) Another queen perk: even newly risen, I hadn’t needed to feed every night like most vampires. Now I was down to once or twice a week and suspected that could go longer. My time in Hell seemed to be extending the time I could go between feedings. An hour there, three days here, it was screwing with my system, but in a good way.

Could I feed in Hell? Something to ponder. And if I could, and did, would it be punishment for the damned, or reward? Could I chomp on Himmler, bin Laden, Bundy? Or, on the other side of that coin, Coco Chanel, Lincoln, Harriet Tubman? And did I want to?

You should focus for this.
Yep. Good advice. Thanks, inner voice! You’re always looking out for me. And by always, I mean rarely.

Hers was the fourth down the hall on the right. If I hadn’t known the apartment number, a peeved Antichrist standing in the hall with her door open and her arms crossed would have tipped me off.

“Sorry to show up empty-handed, I couldn’t find just the right plant,” I said, pushing past her into the bland new digs. “Happy new apartment, symbol of your new life and the fucking-over of your sister. I didn’t think a cyclamen would quite cover it.” Too bad, too. I liked cyclamens. Their flowers looked like little butterflies and their leaves were a deep green that (almost) put Marc’s peepers to shame.

“Half sister,” was how she greeted me, “and watch your mouth in my home.” In fairness, I hadn’t exactly been Suzy Good Manners, either, so I let the reprimand pass. “What do you want?”

“Oh golly, Laura, what don’t I want?” I turned in a small circle in the middle of her living room, taking it all in. It was an open floor plan so I could see at least half the apartment in one glance. She was completely unpacked, and the place even looked a bit lived in. It didn’t smell like new paint; it smelled like spaghetti and garlic bread. The kitchen was neat, but there were dishes (colander, plate, knife, fork, big wooden spoon, big plastic fork, saucepan, pot, lid for same) drying in the strainer, and I could feel the heat coming off the oven. “Well, let me think. I want to be able to enjoy a medium-rare slab of pork loin with a side of wild mushroom risotto without throwing up. I want Marc to quit stuffing the freezer with baggies of dead mice. I want to know when you found time to unpack and keep up with all your charity work if you were spending so much time in Hell struggling without my help. And, I dunno, world peace? Or at least world time-out?”

“Really.” I had picked up a ceramic vase, painted with pink flowers and also stuffed with pink flowers, ugh. She took it from me and set it back down on the bookshelf (man, that woman had a lot of Bibles) with a decisive
clunk
. “You’re here to yell at me about my work ethic? I help more people in a week than you have in your entire life.”

“It’s not my fault I was raised Republican.”

“How did you find out where I live?”

“Aw. That sounds like you weren’t planning on having me over anytime soon. You seem less than happy to see me.”

“What tipped you off?” she snapped, crossing her arms and cupping her elbows. Her eyes were big and blue and anxious. Her flannel-lined jeans were faded, rolled at the cuffs and showing her ankles (tart!). They looked well-worn and comfy, as did her Abbott Northwestern Volunteer sweatshirt.

“Oh . . . everything.” And then some. Too bad it took me so long to put it together. “And Sinclair found out where you lived. I didn’t even have to ask him; by the time I needed the info, he had it.”

“Spying on me.”

“Sure. He put a tracer on your car, too.”

“He
what
?”

I giggled. “I know, what a scamp. A smart scamp. He didn’t trust you. I did, and I’m paying for it now. I’ll pay for a long time, I think.”

Laura could never look ugly, but her mouth twisted and turned down and she came as close as she could while forcing out her question. “Why. Are. You. Here?”

I ignored the question, reaching for a stack of
Reader’s Digest
s on her coffee table. “Wow, I had no idea anyone under forty read this.” She didn’t like me touching her stuff, that was for sure. I was mad, but sad, too. When had we grown apart? Easy: we had never been close, and not because we hadn’t met until we were adults. Any thoughts that we had a loving sisterly bond were just more evidence of me fooling myself. I had always been good at closing my eyes to inconvenience.

“Took him about two minutes to find out where you lived. The vampire king sure gets around now that he can go out in the sunshine. He goes to church, too. They made him a deacon!” Laura actually gagged. I knew how she felt; the whole thing was bizarre. But Sinclair was thrilled to be a churchgoing fella again, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him how funny it was. “How does that fit with your theory that all vampires,
moi
included, are inherently evil and sucky?”

“That there are many things I neither know nor understand.”

“Truer words, little sister. I’m right there with you, by the way. There’s all kinds of shit—sorry, stuff—I don’t know or understand. For example, our father is alive.” I was watching her carefully, and my heart sank when she didn’t change expression. “You knew.”

“Of course.” She wore a small, scornful smile that looked wrong on her face. “You’re surprised? You shouldn’t be surprised.”

“And it, what, slipped your mind? Or you could never think of a tactful way to bring it up?”

“I could never think of a tactful way to tell you it was
your
fault he had to do it.”

“He didn’t
have
to do anything, you bubblehead! It was his choice! All his bad decisions were his choice, just like yours are yours and mine are mine. How’d you find out? What, you went to see him? I know he didn’t come see you, Laura.”

A small flinch told me that last had been a direct hit. “My—my mother told me.”

“Ah.” Sure. I should have realized. Of course Satan had known what my dad was up to. She had made it her business to know everything about Laura. And it was why I was sure the Ant knew what Dad had done, because the devil would have told her. But I couldn’t let myself be distracted by thinking of the Ant now. One family crisis at a time. “So you rushed to Daddy’s side to tell him you understood his pain?” I watched her face as I threw that out there and saw that she hadn’t. “No. You didn’t have the balls to confront him. Can’t really blame you for that one; I could barely bring myself to do it and I had help. Jessica saw him days ago and I spent every day since
not
thinking about it.”

I paused, but Laura didn’t say anything. “‘And then what happened?’” I prompted and got an eye roll for my trouble. “I’ll tell you what happened. I did finally get my thumb out and had a chat with him and he’s dead to me now. And if I see him again, that’s literal. Just so you know. Please don’t plan a father-daughter-daughter lunch anytime soon. It’ll be a disaster even if he doesn’t expect us to pay.”

“You would do that, wouldn’t you?” She was shaking her head, blond waves tumbling artfully. Man, I hated being the funny sister. “Kill your own father.”

“Yep. And if I ever have to do it—” I cut myself off before an embarrassing noise—hysterical sob? choked laughter?—could escape. Could this be happening? Was I discussing patricide with my sister?

It’s happening,
the voice in my head affirmed.
Better face it. Don’t turn away now. Waaay too late for that, honey.

I cleared my throat “If I ever have to kill him, it would be great if you’d keep out of my way.”

“Is this the part where you tell me that, contrary to centuries of legend,
you’re
a good vampire?”

“No, it’s the part where I remind you that you’ve killed, too.”

“In self-defense,” she said quickly.

“No.”

She chewed on her lower lip and didn’t reply. Girl needed to get herself some ChapStick if she was gonna chomp like that. Plus, winter in Minnesota was as dry as a desert. A desert! How fucked was that?

“What I really want to know is, were you always going to stick me with Hell? Or was that a recent plan, a ‘that’ll learn ya to kill my mommy’ thing?”

She looked at the door, like she was really hoping I’d start for it soon.
Keep hoping, little sister.
I wasn’t going anywhere until I’d said my piece, and maybe not even then. I might crash on her couch. For a week! She’d hate that. Unfortunately, I would, too. Talk about cutting off your sister to spite your face.

I hadn’t come looking for an apology. Good thing, too, because I wasn’t going to get one, I’d known that going in. That was all right. I wasn’t going to give one, either.

“No wonder Hell didn’t look like anything when I got there.” I was trying for coolly accusatory, not sniveling. I remembered the vast reaches of nothing, how it had been pure void until I started giving some real thought to how it could be run by someone like me: lots of practical office experience, not much supernatural experience. “You hadn’t been there much yourself. You never had any intention of helping me. You never planned to have anything to do with the place. Hell didn’t take anything from you because you wouldn’t give anything.”

“Yes.”

I kind of liked that. No denial, nothing shrill. She just owned it:
yep,
which might as well have been,
gotcha!
As much as I wanted to wring her neck until her bright eyes bulged, I still liked her and wanted her to like me.

“It’s not all about you, Betsy.”

What foolishness is this? And why did people keep saying that to me like they think I’ll get it?

“I don’t understand,” I admitted.

“It’s not about me punishing or tricking you—”

“Though you are,” I pointed out.

“It’s about me saving myself.”

“Oh yeah?”

“My life has been nothing but madness and murder since you stumbled into it.”

“What?” The
Antichrist
was blaming me for her chaotic, crazy-ass life?

“Do you deny it?”

“Um, yes. I deny the living shit out of it. I didn’t make you kill anybody. That was all you, sweetie, each and every time.”

“Because of positions
you
put me in! I can’t do God’s work if you’re constantly throwing me into the abyss!”

“Again: no one is making you do any of the things you did, are doing, and will do, sunshine. Those were your choices. You’re all super keen on being treated like an adult; start by taking responsibility for your own life.”

“My life was never meant to be serving as the right-hand stooge to a pack of unholy vampire vermin.”

Wow, there was a lot to address in that comment. I went for the easiest one. “Your life? You were born into this, you gorgeous jackass! Your mom was the devil!
Is
the devil—frankly, I don’t think that bitch is really dead! But that is a theory for another time! You were born the Beast. Me, I got chomped on by a pack of feral smelly vampires and woke up their queen. Apples and oranges, dammit!” Ugh, apples and oranges, my dad had said that. And probably in the same shrill, whiny tone. Like this confrontation couldn’t get any more nightmarish.

Laura had gone pale, her lower lip getting ragged from all the chewing, but she stood her ground. It was as impressive as it was irritating. “Ruling the undead was your destiny.”

“And running Hell was yours,” I retorted. “Except you decided you didn’t want to play. So you stuck me with it.”

“You’re not ‘stuck’—”

“Will you cut the shit for five minutes?” I nearly screamed. “Who else? You won’t, and I can’t—but I have to. The labor pool is a little shallow, don’t you think? We can’t just leave Hell unattended. That’s how you got me to finally go down there in the first place—you told me the damned were getting out.”

She didn’t say anything and my heart, which had dropped into my stomach, now fell to my ankles. “Oh God. You didn’t.”

She shook her head, but whether it was in denial or because she wouldn’t discuss it, I didn’t know. And in that moment, I lacked the courage to follow up. I knew she was, in her own way, as self-indulgent as I, and as determined to get her way, but I didn’t think she’d go to such lengths.

Laura took a breath and let it out. “My mother didn’t want this for me.”

“And you think mine did? That’s your argument? Why are your mom’s desires more important than my mom’s?” Before she could reply—though what she could have said I had no idea—I raced ahead. “Five years ago I was a newly fired office assistant. Now I’m running Hell—badly, but at least something’s getting done—but this is all about how
your
life has gotten unacceptably chaotic? You—you—” For the first time I had a glimpse—more than a glimpse—of just how infuriating people found my innate selfishness. I could have slapped her. A lot. But I wanted to slap myself more. Because Marc had been right, days before. I wasn’t a victim. Nobody made me come here. Nobody was making me stay.

“You know the dumbest thing? The laughable, stupid thing?” I asked, slumping onto the end of her couch. She winced, clearly assuming I was getting comfy so I could stay and yell at her for a nice long time. The truth was, it was flop down or fall down. “I knew. Even before I consciously realized what you were up to, people were trying to tell me. I just wouldn’t let myself think about what they were saying. After all, you’re the good one. Right?”