Undead and Unwelcome (3 page)

and, like that story “The Monkey’s Paw,” my wish was granted in a rather grisly way:

With BabyJon’s parents dead, guess who got custody? Bingo. Leaving me with an instant

baby, zero stretch marks, and a ton of buried guilt. Since I had inadvertently made

BabyJon an orphan, I figured the
least
I could do was raise him. He was my only shot at

motherhood; obviously, dead people don’t breed. He squirmed in my arms. I smiled at

him. Jet-black hair and crystal blue eyes, plump where babies are supposed to be plump.

(Enjoy society’s acceptance of your body fat while it lasts, baby brother.) He had four

teeth so far, and his lower lip was a waterfall of drool. “Why not put him in his seat?” my

husband asked, shaking out the
Wall Street Journal
like it was a beach blanket. “Because

we’re not going anywhere right this second.” “Not yet!” Jessica called from the cockpit.

She took off her headphones—she thought they made her look cool, when I knew she was

listening to the latest Shakira album—and headed toward us. She plopped into the seat

behind us and curled up like a cat. She was so small, she actually pulled it off. “So we’re

really doing this thing?” Sinclair looked around as if verifying the cockpit, the pilot, his

papers, my magazines. “It appears so.” “Because, for the record? I think it’s nuts. What

happened to that poor girl wasn’t your fault.” “Sure,” I said, shocked at how bitter I

sounded. It felt like I was sucking on a psychic lemon. “I’ll blame the next-door

neighbor’s dog.” “Not Muggles?” Jessica gasped, which made me snicker in spite of

myself. She could always do that. I was awfully glad she hadn’t died. “Even if Elizabeth

felt no sense of responsibility, bringing the body back is respectful.”
And it lets you get a

good look at the maybe-bad guys, doesn’t it, hot stuff?
But I kept that stuff to myself; it

was pillow talk, and none of Jessica’s business. She probably knew, though. Sinclair

would no more let an advantage like that slip (meeting a powerful force in neutral

territory) than he would go outside without pants. “But I would like to add once again—”

“Oh, here we go.” “I don’t think you should accompany us, Jessica. It’s likely to be

dangerous.” Jessica waved her sticklike arms around. She could put an eye out with one

of those things. “Since Betsy came back from the dead, what isn’t? Shit. I can’t even go to

the Mall of America without running into a sniper team.” “You exaggerate.” “Yes, but not

by much.” Sinclair shrugged. “As you like.” He knew, as we all did, that it was Jessica’s

plane. And that she’d insist on coming even if it was
his
plane. In some ways, and I know

this sounds terrible, but in some ways it was almost bad that I’d cured her cancer. Now

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) she was in the middle of this whole “lust for life” thing and was being more of a tagalong

than usual. I’d cured her by accident, which was terrific. But I’d also made her fearless by

accident, which wasn’t. There’d come a day—the law of averages demanded it—when I

wouldn’t be around to save her teeny butt. “You know, Sinclair’s got a point,” I began,

knowing I was wasting my time (I had no actual breath to waste). “Who knows what the

reception’s going to be like? There’s still time to get off this crazy train and—” “Taking

off right about now, ma’am,” Cooper called. “You did that on purpose,” I muttered. Up

front, Cooper was doing his flight check while Jessica climbed out of her seat, walked to

the front (the fore? The cabin? I was many things, but a pilot wasn’t one of them), and

took her seat next to Cooper. She couldn’t fly and only had a passing knowledge of the

instruments Cooper used, but it
was
her plane. I figured someday she would summon the

nerve to ask him to teach her. Jessica’s presence was less problematic for Cooper than for

me, which is a horrible thing to say about a best friend. As I said, I’d cured her of a lethal

blood disease, totally by accident. But while the vampire in me had once cured her cancer,

it had also attacked her. It had also ripped her boyfriend from her and leeched off her

generous spirit. Every time I looked at her I worried, and resolved to deserve her, and

then worried again. To distract myself I stood up, popped BabyJon into his car seat, made

sure it was secured to the airplane seat, and then sat back down to buckle my own seat

belt. Little brother stared out the window without making so much as a peep. Wait.

Buckle my seat belt? Should I bother? Could a plane crash even hurt me? I looked down

at Eric’s waistline and saw that he hadn’t bothered. Huh. Well. Old habits, you know?

“Aren’t you nervous?” I asked. “Extremely.” “I’m being serious.” “Oh.” The newspaper

slowly came down. “My pardon, dear one. Nervous about what? Facing down an

unknown number of opponents as strong and fast as we are? Or surviving a plane flown by

an Irish-man?” “Nasty! What’d the Irish ever do to you?” “Never mind,” he muttered

darkly. “It was a long time ago.” “Just focus on not dying, and we’ll be fine.” He smiled

and cupped my chin in his hand. In a second, our faces were only inches apart. “I shall

promise not to die, but only if you do so as well.” “Deal,” I murmured, having no idea

what I was agreeing to. Being this close to Sinclair often had this effect on me. “Taking

off now, ladies and gents,” Cooper said, the party pooper. Sinclair took his hand away and

picked up the paper; I just stared at the ceiling. That was how we began the long taxi

toward a place I had never been and didn’t particularly want to go. With a corpse

somewhere under my feet. Mustn’t forget that.

A few hours later, we were descending the stairs (except for Cooper, who stayed behind

to do whatever it is pilots do after passengers exit) to the Logan Airport tarmac. I winced

when I saw Antonia’s coffin brought out and carefully laid down. For such a huge airport,

I was surprised at how quiet Logan was . . . it seemed almost deserted. I figured that was

because we were at the part where they parked the private planes. Three people were

waiting for us on the tarmac, clustered around a vehicle that was a cross between a limo

and a hearse. I recognized them right away. Michael Wyndham, Pack leader (and, though

this wasn’t the time or place, so so cute, with golden brown hair and calm yellow eyes).

His wife, Jeannie, a blonde with a head full of fluffy curls (must be hell in the humidity).

And Derik, one of Michael’s werewolves, also yummilicious with short-cropped yellow

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) blond hair and green eyes. Was being gorgeous written into the werewolf genetic code?

Well, wait. Jeannie was human, though the others weren’t. We’d met the week I got

married (long,
long
story) and I’d gotten a bit of her history then. I guess, for Michael and

Jeannie, it had been love at first sight. As opposed to the loathe on first sight it had been

for Sinclair and me. Ah, memories. If nothing else, I hoped that my prior meeting with

Jeannie might help smooth things over. The woman had helped me pick out my wedding

gown, for heaven’s sake. There was a
bond
there, dammit. I’d met Derik and Michael that

same week, and though Michael gave off “cool leader” vibes, Derik was a ball of good-

humored energy. Usually. We faced each other through a long, uncomfortable silence.

Finally, I cleared my throat to say something when Derik walked over to the coffin and

started to— Oh, man. He wasn’t. He wasn’t. He . . . was. He was lifting the lid off. “I

don’t think that’s a good idea,” my husband said quietly, and I seized his hand and

squeezed, which would have pulverized the bones in an ordinary human’s hand, but would

have as much effect on Sinclair as a mosquito bite. He squeezed back, which hurt. “Derik,

Eric’s right,” Michael warned. Under the fluorescent lights, he was as pale as milk. They

all were, actually. Poor, poor guys. I wasn’t sure who I pitied more: the dead Antonia or

the living Pack members. “I need to be sure,” Derik insisted, and I winced again. The poor

guy had pinned all his hopes on the chance that we’d gotten another werewolf mixed up

with Antonia, which was so dumb I wanted to cry. The lid was all the way up. Derik

stared inside for a long moment and then, with infinite care, slowly lowered the lid. Then

he started to howl.

We were all shocked, even his friends were shocked. Derik, normally a man of sunny

temperament (at least from what I’d seen a few months back), was roaring like a rabid

bear. Then he raised his fists over his head and brought them crashing down on the coffin

lid, which instantly gave way. Suddenly it was hard for me to swallow. Suddenly I wanted

a drink in the worst way. Any drink. A smoothie, a frozen mudslide, blood, gasoline,

Clorox, whatever. Derik was glaring at me with eyes that were hard to look away from.

“You might have washed her face, at least.” This was my evening for wincing, except this

time it was almost a flinch. Because Derik was right . . . but then, was I wrong in trying to

show respect for whatever rituals they had? Jessica coughed and spoke up, attempting to

save my ass. “We, um, didn’t want to offend you guys.”
“Offend?”
Derik spat. And in a

flash, I remembered Antonia once telling me that her only real friend in the Pack was

Derik.
“Offend?”
Crash!
More fist-sized holes in the lid, which he seemed determined to

convert into thousands of velvet-tipped toothpicks. I took a step forward . . . only to feel

Sinclair’s hand close around my bicep and gently pull me back. He was right, of course.

This wasn’t about me, and stomping into the middle of it would have been grossly

inappropriate. And yet. And still. I couldn’t stand seeing anyone—even a bare

acquaintance—in so much pain. My feet seemed determined to disobey my brain, because

they took another slow step . . . and Sinclair tugged me back, not so gently this time.

“You never should have gone!” Derik was yelling into the coffin. “You stupid bitch! You

left your Pack!” Nobody said anything to that, big surprise. Because, again, it was the

truth. “All right, that’s enough,” Michael said calmly. His copper-colored eyes looked

almost orange in the fluorescents. “Let’s take her home, Derik.” So into the back Antonia

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) went, the way back where there were no seat belts, because none were needed. Jeannie

drove; Michael sat beside her in the front. Derik sat across from us in the back. Looking

through us, not at us. No one said a word during the entire ninety-minute drive to Cape

Cod.

Jesus!” I gasped, staring out the window. Sinclair flinched, but I was used to his twitches.

“
This
is where you live?” I asked, feeling like I had straw in my hair and cow shit on my

heels. All I needed were a few “hyuk, hyuks!” to complete the picture. “You
live
here?”

“Yes,” Michael said shortly as he drove to the main entrance. I pressed my face up against

the window so hard my nose squashed. Thanks to no longer being addicted to oxygen, I

didn’t fog up the glass, at least. It was a castle. No, really. A castle. On Cape Cod! And I

wasn’t the only impressed yokel: both Jessica (who’d napped all the way here, like

BabyJon) and Sinclair (who’d grown up on a farm a zillion years ago) were staring out

their windows, too. Gravel crunched beneath the wheels as we neared the castle of red

bricks and red stones with about a zillion windows, set square in the middle of a huge field

of green, with the Atlantic Ocean right behind it and stretching all the way into a gray

forever. If it looked this magical at night, how, oh how, would it look during the day? I

promised myself I would find out. If you’re going to get stuck with an eternal membership

card of the undead, being the prophesied queen was the way to go. Not only did I wake

up in the afternoon, instead of sunset, but I could go outside. I’d never burn up, not to

mention worry about wrinkles and freckles. It was like getting your hand stamped at a

club, only a zillion times cooler. I realized I was still sitting in the car like a startled blond

lump, and yanked on the door handle. I could hear the murmur of waves as I got out of

the limo. Could smell the salt in the air, the sweetness of the grass field. Tilted my head

back and looked at a sky of stars I had never seen before, dangling over the pure ocean. I

almost went into sensory overload, to be honest; it was a gorgeous night and, by God, it

smelled
gorgeous and I was absolutely loving my enhanced senses (which had not always

been the case, believe me—don’t even get me started on Marc’s aftershave). Until I got

here, I hadn’t known that gorgeous could
be
a smell. “It’s late,” Michael said curtly,

striding up to the main doors with Jeannie almost in lockstep beside him. Sinclair was also

abreast of them. (How did he
do
that, just fall into step right beside the biggest and

strongest like he belonged there?) So I tried to stop gaping and trotted after Jessica, who