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Authors: MaryJanice Davidson

BOOK: Undead and Unfinished
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“Eyes front, Michael!”
“Okay.”
“No,” Laura said, still working on her train of thought. “It’s practice for sure, but we’re getting bogged down with the day-to-day human stuff.”
“Bogged down?” Didn’t care for
that
phrasing one little bit.
“Well, if I wasn’t half human, my mother would have come up with some other way for me to learn this stuff. But I am. So she needed you. And because I need you in order to learn, I’m getting bogged down in things like your in-laws’ murder and such.”
“Maybe you didn’t catch my shrill bitchy tone, so I’ll try again:
bogged down?”
She flapped a hand to show what she thought of my bitchy tone. “You know what I mean. Don’t make it into a thing.”
“I’ll make it into anything I—Michael, will you
please
drive these
fucking
horses
straight
before I
kill
one of them to drown you in their
blood?”
“You’re really, really pretty.”
“No, I’m not! I’m filthy, I’m not wearing any makeup, I haven’t seen a hairbrush in well over a hundred years, I’m covered with ancient dust from my dead in-laws’ farm, and somebody thought I looked so ghastly they figured I was going swimming earlier today. I am the polar opposite from really, really pretty and it hurts, Michael, it
hurts.
An entire frontier town full of people,” I groaned, burying my face in my hands, “and I had to get the one they invented the short buses for.”
“Actually, frontier town is a misnomer, since—”
“Oh, enough, history girl. You do understand that if I committed felony assault all over your skull, there wouldn’t be a jury in the world that would convict me. You get that, ri—well, finally!” I could see glimpses of headstones sort of peeking out from all the trees ... I’d have been able to spot them sooner if someone had gotten off their lazy butts
and invented flashlights.
And headlights for wagons. And brake lights for wagons. “And check this—almost dark!”
“That’s odd. They normally had funerals during the day. It’s not like they can haul out a bunch of klieg lights and turn them on in another hour.”
“Maybe they’re in a hurry to get the Sinclairs into the ground.”
“Yes,” the Antichrist said. “Maybe they are.” Then she shivered. “Brrr! I gave myself the chills with that one. Do we know how they were murdered?”
I squirmed. “No,” I admitted. “I just know they were murdered the same week his sister was. It might even have been the same day. But I don’t know the circumstances or anything. Hey, Michael, do you know what happened to Erin Sinclair, and Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair?”
“Yup.”
We waited for a long moment, but Michael had started humming under his breath. A simple creature, our driver, not overtaxed with many of life’s burdens.
“Well?” we asked.
“Oh. Yup, ah, Erin, she took it in her head that she wanted to go to college. An’ the Sinclairs, y’know, Henry and Bobbi, they always did like to spoil her—she’s the youngest, y‘know, by near four minutes. So they took her up there to sit for them exams. And I guess she wasn’t even the first woman to sit for ’em! Haw!”
“Haw,” we dutifully echoed.
“But there was this fella there, he didn’t work for the college but he said he did, and he tried to lay with Erin but she wasn’t having none of that, so he hit her, and they figure she fell, ‘cuz her neck got broke.”
Laura looked ill. I probably did, too, but I was more pissed than sick. “Then what?”
“She just shoulda stayed home. We all warned her.”
“Oh, you mean stay on the farm and squeeze out a few babies and never try to learn anything new or visit anything new or see anything new?”
“She’s not seein’ nothing new now.”
“Touché, Mikey. Let’s go find Susan B. Anthony,” I suggested to Laura, “and kiss her on the mouth.” Thank you, thank you, Susie B., for getting the idea in your head that women were worth more than the theoretical children they might have. I knew we were in olden times and all, but cripes, that kind of talk made me
nuts.
And if Erin was only half as independent as her twin, and half as stubborn ... well. No effing wonder she’d wanted to go to college. I thought it was pretty cool that Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair gave her a ride, come to think of it.
“Then what, Fred Flintstone?”
“Well, you know Henry.”
“Yes, we know Henry,” Laura said, encouraging him to go on by not throttling him. “Whatta kidder, that Henry. Yes indeed.”
“Yeah, well, he ‘bout lost his mind when he found Erin all smashed up and suchlike, and he went charging up the stairs to get that fella, and nobody’s really sure what happened next, but he an’ Bobbi both turned up dead. Smashed.” He gestured to his own head. “The bones in their heads were all smashed up.”
“Excuse me, did you say
smashed?”
“Do they know who did it?” Laura interrupted before Michael could elaborate on smashed.
“We know who sez he did it ... this fella claimed he was on the board what founded the university up there. ‘Cept that was a lie, because the university got started back in fifty-one and this fella didn’t look no older than Erin.”
Laura’s eyes got very big and she mouthed vampire at me. I nodded. “That’s—that’s very interesting, Michael, thanks for telling us. Laura, look, there’s the crowd ... let’s just sort of hang on the outskirts, see what we can see. Michael, you can let us out here.”
“But you’re so pretty.”
“Yes, one of my many burdens.”
“But you’re so—”
“Good-
bye
, Mikey.”
“But you are,” he wailed as we hopped off the wagon and scampered into the brush like big blonde gophers. Breaking hearts wherever I went, that was the motto of the vampire queen. Also, never leave your own time period without a lint brush and a change of clothes.
Chapter 48
W
e’d been lurking, and freezing, for over an hour. The minister had come and gone; the townspeople had come and gone. It was full dark, and we were both shivering.
Finally, only Eric Sinclair was left beside the graves.
I wasn’t quite sure why I was hanging out here. Sure, I felt shitty for the poor guy—his entire world, wiped out in, what? Half an hour? Less? But the only thing I could do by staying was screw up the time line.
I guess it was as simple as this: I knew my love was suffering. And even if I couldn’t help directly, I just wanted a look at him. To, as Stephen King put it, “refresh my heart.”
What was shocking was that I’d always assumed Sinclair had been turned in his late twenties or early thirties. But Erin, according to her headstone, had been only nineteen. (“Spinster territory,” Laura had told me. “Probably one of the reasons she wanted to go to college. She knew nobody was waiting around town to marry her. Or she had turned them all down, which is another mark in Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair’s favor. Not to mention Erin’s.”)
Eric Sinclair had never looked nineteen to me, and now I knew why: the shock had aged him, had carved lines around his eyes and mouth that weren’t supposed to show up for another fifteen years.
And yeah. I won’t deny it. I felt guilty, too. I’d never bothered to find any of this out. I could hide behind the well-Sinclair-keeps-himself-to-himself argument, but that would have been lame even for me. He would have told me if I’d ever pulled my head out of my own ass long enough to ask.
What was weird was seeing him
alive,
you know? We weren’t having to be especially stealthy; he was in a world of his own. A world where his hearing was normal and he had zero interest in drinking blood. A world where he was mortal and hurting and, as of this week, entirely alone.
Laura nudged me and I looked. Tina had appeared from nowhere, it seemed, and was watching Sinclair with her big dark eyes. He hadn’t spotted her; she was several rows back and standing so still I was a little surprised Laura had managed to spot her.
And Eric not only hadn’t seen her, he wouldn’t, I was surprised to see. He had turned and was sort of stumbling toward the cemetery entrance.
And Tina was watching him go!
“What the fuck?” I hissed, then yelped as Laura seized my ear and hauled me facedown beside her.
“Be careful! Remember vampire hearing.”
“I’d like to remember my
own
hearing—ow, ow,
ow, ow!”
I jerked away and rubbed my now-throbbing ear. Cripes, at least it was still attached. Barely. “Since when have you been so grabby?”
“I think you must have gotten the story wrong,” Laura breathed, so quietly I could barely make out the words and I was standing right next to her. “See?”
I saw, all right. Sinclair was leaving, and Tina wasn’t doing shit.
“No way,” I said, seizing the Antichrist’s hand as I started running for Tina. “I got it
right.
She turns him. They both told me the same story at different times. And we’re gonna make it right. Right now!” Hmm, that was a lot of
rights
in not very many statements.
I’d worry about evening it up later.
Chapter 49
W
here the hell do you think you’re going?”
Tina looked more than startled—she looked borderline horrified.
“Well? Don’t just stand there staring at my awesome-yet smudged shirt and filthy leggings! Go turn Sinclair into a vampire!”
“I can think of at least five other ways we could have done that more efficiently. And quietly.”
“Shut up, you. Tina, come on.” I stepped forward, seized her arm just above the elbow, and tugged her toward Sinclair. “Bite already. Gnaw away. Chomp like you’ve never chomped before.”
“Who
are
you?”
I opened my mouth ... and stopped. What, exactly, should I tell her? That I was the long-prophesied vampire queen she hadn’t ever heard of? That I was the wife of the teenager currently stumbling his way out of the cemetery? That I knew the killer of her friends was a vampire, and oh, by the way, I knew she was, too, so go ahead and bite that old family friend and also, don’t kill me?
I really couldn’t think of anything to tell her that wouldn’t earn me a shot in the mouth. Or a broken neck.
“You have to help him.” Hey, that sounded pretty reasonable. Which is probably why Laura thought of saying it. “He needs you.”
“I failed him,” Tina said, visibly upset, practically crying—not with tears, vampires don’t have excess moisture just lying around for them to excrete, but you get the jist. “I failed them all. How can I ever face him?”
“How can you abandon him?”
Ohhh, good one, Laura!
Thank God I’d brought her along on these dumb time-traveling trips.
“It’s monstrous. I could never.”
“You’re just going to abandon him, then? Leave him with his grief?” I nagged. “You’ve seen him. He’ll stick a gun in his mouth by the end of the week.”
Tina flinched. Unlike Laura and me, she was appropriately dressed for the time. The big fat dresses from Salem were gone, and thank goodness. Instead, Tina was wearing an ankle-length skirt, which was pencil straight, pinching her knees together so that it was almost hobbling her. The top, a long tunic, completed the pencil look (I assume she was going for a pencil look); she looked skinny as a (pencil!) stick, but the deep cherry red of the tunic and the cherries-on-white print of the skirt made her look more substantial than she was. A big blonde hulk like me? If I’d worn a print like that, I would have been mistaken for the cherry tree. Petite women had all the luck.
Her hair was worn up, the big blonde waves carefully pinned up and away from her face. Her dark eyes were wary and full of pain. Which was sad and all, but her shoes! She had the most adorable red flapper-style shoes! Thick, chunky heels and delicate ankle straps completed the outfit, and Tina was a pretty, stylish picture indeed.
The shoes weren’t much help ... she wasn’t dressed flapper-style, but was wearing those kinds of shoes. So it’d be easy to assume, okay, probably 1920s. Except this was Hastings, Minnesota. Not exactly the center for all things fashion. So it could have been as early as 1910, or as late as 1935. No way to tell.
“—have to bite him! Tell her, Betsy.”
“Eh? Oh, yep. You sure do have to bite him. Bite him and bite him and then bite him some more. He’s gonna want to catch the killer.”
“I will catch the killer,” Tina said, and for a second she didn’t look cute and beautiful and sweet; for a second, I felt a very real chill, and not because I was dressed in a bathing suit (sort of). Looks were deceiving, and who’d know better than a former Miss Congeniality? Tina was a predator, a beautiful woman used to getting her shit done while surrounded by men who assumed she was stupid, incompetent, or both. Her camouflage was excellent.
That was something I should probably keep in mind at all times.

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