Undead and Unappreciated (4 page)

I
stared at the baby shower invitation. It was pink (yurrggh), and sparkly, and seven inches high (how did she find envelopes to fit?) and in the shape of a baby carriage.

“Bitch,” Jessica commented, reading over my shoulder. “She's having it during the day, when you can't come.”

“Not that I'd want to,” I sniffed, but the fact was, the baby-to-be was my half sibling, poor thing.

“Whatcha gonna get her?”

“The Ant? How about a brain aneurysm?”

Jessica walked past me and opened the fridge. “You have to get her something. I mean, the baby something.”

“How about a new mother?”

“She's registered, anyway.”

“Not
too
gauche, putting it right on the invitation. With color preferences!”

“Yes, yes…how about a portacrib?”

“A what?”

“It's a crib that folds up and you can take it around.”

“Why,” I demanded, gesturing for her to pour me a glass of milk as well, “would you want to take a crib around?”

“That way, if the baby comes to visit, it's got a place to sleep.”

“You think the baby will make a break for it so soon?” I answered my own question. “Of course it will. Poor thing will probably sneak right out of the hospital nursery.”

“Will you be serious, please?”

“I can't. If I think about it seriously, my head will blow up. It's just one more awful thing in my life right now—physical proof that my father is still having sex with the Ant.”

“It must be hard to take,” she agreed, “on top of being dead and all.”

“Tell me.” I took a gulp of milk. Being dead, being Sinclair's consort, living in this museum-sized mausoleum, trying to run Scratch (it was the only money I had coming in), trying to keep the Fiends on a short leash (literally!), trying to make nice with Dad and the Ant, and finally…“So, check this. Andrea and Daniel are getting married.”

“And you're performing the ceremony.”

“How'd you know?”

“Sinclair told me.”

“Look, I forbid you to speak with that man.”

“I'm his landlord,” she reminded me. “We were making polite conversation while he wrote out his rent check.”

I snorted. Like she needed the money. Jessica was rich. Not “compared to the rest of the world everyone in America is rich” rich.
Rich
rich. Like, Bill Gates tried to get her to loan him money for a new start-up rich. She turned him down politely, via email. Said it was her way of evening up the universe.

“This whole thing is ridiculous, you know. It's ridiculous that we live in this place. It's ridiculous that
he
lives with us. It's ridiculous that you're charging him rent, and it's really ridiculous that he pays it. You two have all the money in the world, and you're just trading it back and forth.”

“Like baseball cards,” she suggested.

“It's not funny, Jessica.”

“It's a little bit funny. Besides, what was I supposed to do? After Nostro burned down his house, he was living on hotel room service. And it's not like we didn't have the space.”

I had nothing to say to that, just gulped more milk and slumped at one of the kitchen stools. The room was laid out like an industrial kitchen, except the whole second half had a big table with chairs, and there was a long counter that ran a fourth of the length of the room, also with chairs. It was by far the most inviting room in the house, which is why I usually hung out there. I just didn't feel right in one of the parlors or the library.

Besides, the Book of the Dead was in the library. Like last year's
Vogue
s weren't bad enough.

“Someone's at the door,” I said, wiping off my face.

“Oh, there is not.”

“Jessica, there totally is.”

“No way. You know, you're like one of those annoying yappy little dogs…every time a car rolls by outside, you freak out and decide someone's coming up the walk and ringing the—”

Bonnnnnnng-BONNNNNNNNNNGGGGG.

“I hate you,” she sighed, getting up.

I checked my watch. It was almost six o'clock in the morning…probably not a vampire. They didn't like to be running around so close to sunrise. As a rule, they were more flammable than gasoline. Or was it inflammable? I always got those two mixed up. My D in chemistry had never served me well.

Sinclair walked in, winding his watch.

“You really need to get something battery-operated,” I told him.

“My father gave this to me. And speaking of fathers…”

“Don't tell me.” I covered my eyes. Should have covered my ears instead. “Don't even tell me.”

“Guess who decided to stop by?” Jessica asked brightly, walking back into the kitchen. That was quick—she must have sprinted there and back.

I dropped my hands in time to see a tall, good-looking older man walking behind her, puffing to keep up, his dark brown hair heavily flecked with salt, the golfing pants tightly cinched at the waist with an alligator belt, the pink plaid complemented by the pink Izod shirt.

“Dad,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, which wasn't a lot. He'd obviously stopped by en route to the links, which should have been touching, but wasn't.

“Betsy. Err…” He nodded at Sinclair, then his gaze skittered away. This was a pretty typical reaction when a guy met Sinclair. Women looked away, too…but always looked back.

“You look nice.” I pointed to the corners of my eyes. “Get something done?”

His crow's feet had radically depleted, and he nodded. In fact, he looked better than he had in years. I was so happy my death wasn't, y'know, weighing heavily on him or anything. “Yes, your stepmother had me go see Dr. Ferrin. He does the mayor, too,” he added, because he couldn't help himself.

Like Sinclair or Jessica cared…or needed it themselves. I looked at him but, as usual, Sinclair didn't take the hint. In fact, he was—oh, Lord!—sitting down at the table and making himself comfortable.

“I see you got the announcement,” Dad said, glancing down at my mail, scattered across the counter. I'd always assumed being dead cut down on junk mail, but like so many things I'd assumed about death, I was wrong.

“Invitation,” Jessica piped up, also sitting down. “Not announcement. Invitation.”

“Well…but you can't come…because it's…you know…”

“I would be happy to go instead,” Sinclair said with all the warmth of a rutting cobra. “In fact, it would be appropriate if I did. Why…” He grinned, which was horrifying, but also kind of funny. “I'm practically a member of your family.”

I actually felt sorry for my dad; for a second I thought he was going to faint, just do a header into my mail pile. Sinclair, as an ancient dead guy, could walk around during the day, provided he stayed inside. Maybe he could borrow a fire blanket for going to and from the taxi.

A mental image of big-shouldered Sinclair in one of his sober suits, sitting primly on one of the Ant's over-stuffed couches, a pink ribboned gift in his lap…it was too much.

I was annoyed with the big goober, as usual, but it was kind of cute the way he stuck it to my dad on my behalf. Talk about the son-in-law from hell.

“You gonna be okay?” I asked Dad, fighting a grin. Jessica, I noticed, had given up that fight.

“I—I—I—”

“You could wear the black Gucci,” Jessica told Sinclair. “I picked it up from the cleaner's yesterday, so it's all set to go.”

“Kind of you, dear, but I have told you many times, you are not an errand runner.”

“I—I—I—”

“I was there anyway, getting my own stuff.” She shrugged. “No trouble.”

“I—I—I—”

“You are too kind, Jessica.”

“I—I—I—”

“It's all right, Dad,” I said, forcing myself to pat his shoulder. “I won't let him come if you don't want him there.”

“But I adore baby showers!” Sinclair protested, having the gall to sound wounded. “I find them scrumptious.”

“I just…” My dad took a deep gulp of air and tried to steady himself. I stopped patting. “I just wanted to make sure you got the…the announcement. But I also wanted to remind you…your stepmother is very delicate…very…under a lot of stress, you know…the baby…and the spring carnival…she's chairwoman…and I don't think…don't think…”

“Stress.” Jessica snorted. “Yeah, that's the problem. What's the shrink du jour say?”

“Dr. Brennan comes highly recommended,” my father said and, because he couldn't help it, added, “He's very exclusive
and
expensive, but he made room on his calendar for Antonia. He feels she should avoid stress and…and unpleasantness.”

“Maybe she should stop looking in the mirror,” Jessica suggested, and I chewed on my lower lip, hard, so I wouldn't laugh. I had to admit, I was getting more yuks out of this predawn meeting than I'd had in about a month. Maybe it was a good thing Sinclair was back.

What was I thinking?

My father turned his back on Jess but said nothing. She was black, which meant he had a hard time taking her seriously: but she was also the richest woman in the state, so he couldn't afford to totally blow her off. It was a tricky balancing act, one he usually fucked up. “You understand what I'm saying, don't you, Betsy?” he almost pleaded.

“Sure. Send a gift, but don't visit.”

Sinclair was on his feet, but my dad, who had his back to that part of the room, didn't notice. Poor survival skills—outside of the boardroom—that was my father. Jessica reached out and tugged, hard, on his jacket, but Sinclair didn't budge.

“It's okay,” I added, waving Sinclair back down—but he still didn't budge, the stubborn tick. “I didn't want to go, anyway.”

Dad relaxed and smiled at me. “Well, of course, that's what I assumed.”

“Of course.” I gave him a wintry smile in return, which, I was glad to see, backed him up a step. “Thanks so much for stopping by. My love to what's-her-name.”

“Betsy, you've never understood Antonia—”

“I understand her fine.”

“No, I don't think someone like you could ever understand—”

“Mr. Taylor!”
We all jumped. The crockery had practically rattled. And my dad had nearly swooned again. “I demand you retract that statement
at once,
or I will be forced to—what are you doing?”

Jessica had jumped on Sinclair's back in an attempt to forestall the lecture (or possibly the maiming). She was clinging to him like a skinny black beetle, all arms and elbows and knees, and he shook his head, which nearly dislodged her. “Really, Jessica. Could you climb down?”

“Promise you won't finish that sentence,” she whispered in his ear. “Take it from me. It won't do any good, and it might make things worse. She can handle him.”

Anybody else would have said something like, “Hello, I'm standing right here!” but my dad, the master of ignoring what was in his face, didn't say a word. He brushed a piece of lint off his shirtsleeve and examined his Kenneth Coles, which were glossy with shoeshine, while my best friend climbed my consort like a premenstrual monkey.

“I certainly will not. She is my consort and my queen, and he is treating her like—”

“So,” my dad interrupted, cutting Sinclair off, which nobody ever got away with except me, “I'll tell Antonia you said hi.”

“Why?” I asked, honestly curious.

You have to understand, it's not like my dad was incredibly brave or anything. He had a pissed-off billionaire and a vampire king in the room, but it didn't phase him, because it was beneath him. He could just close his mind to anything remotely unpleasant—or even interesting. I'd gotten used to my father's oblivious ways by the time I was thirteen, when I realized he'd tossed my mom, and the Ant was going to be my stepmother. Since he was the only dad I had, I put up with a lot. But, to be fair, so did he.

“It won't be like the last time,” my dad continued, sounding almost cheerful. “She was all alone last time, but this time I'm here, and she'll have all the support she needs. I just wish you could understand what she's been through, how hard she…she…” He trailed off as I stared at him, as he realized he'd just made a fuckup of truly heroic proportions.

“She's been pregnant before?” I asked, almost gasped.

Jessica
did
gasp. “Get out of town!”

“No—no, she didn't…I mean, I wasn't—she wasn't—we—we—”

“Was there a baby?” Sinclair asked quietly, and good as he was, my dad couldn't ignore that and turned around to face him, moving stiffly like a puppet whose strings were being jerked. Which probably wasn't that far from the truth.

“Yes.”

“And”—Sinclair took a step closer (Jessica was still hanging on to his back, gaping over his shoulder at my dad) and looked down at my father—“were you the father?”

“Yessss.” My dad sounded drugged. But then, anybody did once Sinclair got close enough. He was the best I'd seen at it. I could only entrance men, but he could do anybody.

“Where is the baby?”

“Antonia didn't tell me…didn't…we weren't together, and she gave it…she didn't…she…”

“You better stop,” I said. “He's about to blow all his cylinders.”

“Quite right,” Sinclair said. “That would be truly terrible.”

I gave Sinclair a look, then took my dad by the shoulders. “Dad. Dad! Listen. You came over and made sure I wasn't going to come to the shower.”