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Authors: MaryJanice Davidson

BOOK: Undead and Unfinished
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“And you could not save them.”
I rested my chin on his shoulder, so I was staring straight into his left ear. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Everything, most charming of queens. It has everything to do with anything.”
Chapter 9
T
he fink I married wasn’t entirely off base. No, we hadn’t really dealt with what had happened. And yes, I sure didn’t discuss it with anybody—not even him. Not even my best friend.
That was because I knew something my husband and friend didn’t: I was a coward.
I never looked at the stairs.
I never looked at the perfectly repaired spokes in the completely repaired banister.
I never looked at the tiles Antonia fell on, bled on, died on.
I never used the front door at all; the last time I had done so Antonia had caught a bullet in the brain and her lover, Garrett, had caught wooden spokes in the chest, stomach, and throat.
Never.
So, with all that never and all that ever, yeah, okay. I never think about it. On purpose, of course. Unlike some, I’ll cough up: of course I never think of it on purpose. Who could never think of that by accident?
So Captain Buzzkill had a point.
But that didn’t mean Thanksgiving didn’t blow rocks because it absolutely did.
“What’s your point?”
“That your responsibilities entail facing trouble instead of wishing it away.”
With a bound I was off the bed. “Oh, here we go. Responsibilities of royalty. Leadership. Right. Never mind the fact that your average vampire is about ninety-eight years old.
They
should be leading
me
. In vampire years, I’m still a toddler.”
Okay, huge pet peeve here. I could tell by Sinclair’s expression that he’d heard this before and was unmoved. And yep, it’s pretty childish to whine about circumstances I’ll never, ever be able to change.
But I
hated
that I was expected to boss people around who were (a) old enough to take care of themselves, (b) old enough to know better, and (c) way, way old enough to not need a micromanaging vampire queen. I quit all that stuff when I got fired from my last admin job.
But here we were. And back again: my responsibilities. My, my, I certainly was fulfilling all my if-I-become-Miss-Vampire-Queen-I’ ll-work-tirelessly-for-world-peace vows. The Antichrist went nuts. My father died. My stepmother died and started haunting me. The devil liked to hang around. Garrett killed himself Antonia caught a bullet with her brain ... three times! My best friend broke up with the love of her life, who insisted she pick between him and me.
Oh my, yes. Everything was
aces.
I was at the door by now, half hoping Sinclair was right behind me. He wasn’t. He was still sitting on the bed. “I’m sick of discussing this.”
“How is that possible,” he asked coolly, “when we never have?”
Ouch! “If I go out this door,” I threatened, “I’m ...” Well.
Never coming back
was untrue, and he knew it. But
eventually coming back
didn’t have the ominous ring I was hoping for. “... gonna stay really pissed at you!”
He yawned.
I went.
Chapter 10
l
stomped down the
Gone with the Wind
-esque flight of stairs (carpeted in deep red plush, how positively Scarlett) and passed through a couple of hallways. (This place had more bathrooms than the White House, not to mention armoires, linen closets, dumbwaiters, parlors, bedrooms, and butler’s pantries—I’d found three so far.)
For the hundredth time I wondered what I, Elizabeth Don’t-call-me-that Taylor, was doing living in a mansion stuffed with paranormal oddities like my husband. For that matter, what was I, Elizabeth Taylor, doing
being
a paranormal oddity in the first place?
It hadn’t been that long ago that I was footloose and fancy-free, living on my own, in my own house, not married, not babysitting the undead or the teething, just getting my shit done and occasionally indulging in the new Beverly Feldman spring pump.
Maybe that was my problem: I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought myself a new pair of shoes.
How ... how could this have happened to my life? No wonder everything was fucked up! My God, it was all so clear ...
I had wandered into the kitchen, not quite by accident. The room was as big as a stadium, but warm and inviting ... big long counters, a couple of fridges always stocked with snacks, big bar stools and lots of magazines and newspapers spread all over the marble countertop Tina occasionally rolled out cookies on. (Which was funny, because she couldn’t eat them. None of us could, except Jessica, who was always morbidly worried about gaining weight and edging up into the dreaded 102-pound territory. Where the hell did all the cookies go?)
As I half expected, Tina was already there. She was freshly showered—no surprise, because she smelled like blood. Just back from hunting, then.
Tina and my husband had to feed daily (nightly, I s‘pose). The unwritten rule was, we fed on bad guys only. So if you were a mugger or rapist or killer or thief or embezzler, watch out. You were eligible for our nightly snack-‘n’-go program. We’d snack, and you’d just ... go. Where, we didn’t much care.
She was standing in front of the freezer, hanging on to the open door, wearing her post-shower uniform of a neck-to-toes nightgown of gorgeous, heavy cream-colored linen. With her cascades of blonde hair and her big brown eyes, she looked like an extra from
Little House on the Prairie,
A hot extra.
I suddenly realized something I knew about Tina—you know how you don’t know you know something until you realize you
do
know? (Shut up. It makes sense if you think about it.) What I now knew was that Tina always dressed as modestly as a schoolmarm. The most daring ensemble I ever saw her in was a pair of linen walking shorts topped with a long-sleeved T-shirt.
She favored skirts and long pants. Turtlenecks and long nightgowns—never anything frothy or revealing. I remembered she once told me she’d become a vampire during the Civil War (or was she born during the war? Couldn’t remember ...); apparently old habits of modesty died hard. Or, in Tina’s case, didn’t die at all.
She was, I knew, eyeing her vast and weird vodka collection. Like any vampire, she was continually compulsively thirsty. Like me, she occasionally tried to drown it with stuff besides blood. Also like me, she failed every time ... but enjoyed the trying.
Here she was pulling out a bottle—ugh, chili pepper-flavored vodka. Like a drink made from potatoes wasn’t yuck-o enough.
Nope, she didn’t want pepper-flavored. Back into the freezer it went. Here came cinnamon. Somewhat better, I s’pose, but nope, she didn’t want that one, either. Here came—aw, no! Bacon! Bacon-flavored vodka! (I swear to God I am not making this up. Wikipedia it if you don’t believe me.)
I was going to barf right now. Right here in the kitchen near the feet of one of my most loyal vampire minions. Nothin’ was stopping the Vomit Express. Except possibly the fact that I hadn’t barfed since waking up dead in that funeral home three years ago.
Concentrate. Think about all the nice things Tina’s done. Think about what a crass, crummy thing throwing up on her feet would be. Think about ... think about the fact that she wouldn’t even let you clean it up!
Chapter 11
S
he was Sinclair’s majordomo, which was a fancy word to describe the awesomeness that was Tina, super secretary and administrative assistant to the damned. But she was even more than that.
She knew where the bodies were buried—not an idle phrase in
this
house. She knew all the account numbers and passwords. She knew birthdays and death days. She knew favorite foods and allergies. She was practically a genius with firearms—a pretty good trick for someone who’d been born during the Civil War. Or turned into a vampire during same.
She had made my husband—turned him. And stuck with him ever since, and when she met me, instantly threw her loyalty right at me.
She was—you know. She was Tina. Tina, undead citizen of the undead with a penchant for booze made from potatoes and flavored with cured meats.
Really, about all I knew about her was that she turned Sinclair into a vampire the night of his family’s triple funeral, and I guess they’d never looked back.
Tina and my husband hadn’t hooked up, which I found both a relief and weird—they would have made a gorgeous power couple. I was sort of amazed he’d resisted her, frankly. She was supremely gorgeous, and even better, massively smart. Like, Dog Whisperer smart.
No, the two of them had just calmly gone about the business of amassing money and property and ... this is going to sound pretty damn conceited, even for me, but they basically spent scores of decades waiting for yours truly to show up.
Enter
moi
, recently deceased and pissed off (the latter nothing new; the former extremely new). The night I met Tina she saved my ass. I’ve managed to return the favor once or twice.
The point? I guess the point was, I loved and admired and lived with and depended on people I really knew very little about. Not that they were taciturn—I just usually couldn’t be bothered. Who cared if Sinclair had been raised Presbyterian or Lutheran? Who cared if his grandmother ever made him eat lutefisk at Christmas time? Who cared if Tina had ever been married, ever been a mom?
Well. They did, probably.
And I should have.
Chapter 12
M
ajesty, how long are you going to lurk by the door?”
Of course. She knew I was there, had known I was there probably before I knew I was headed toward the kitchen. I could be quiet when I wanted, but Tina was more ghost than vampire, and nothing got by her.
“Please don’t pick that one,” I begged, and she chuckled.
“No, I’m not quite in the mood for that .. I listened hard; did she have a southern accent? No. I was sure she never had—at least, not in the three years I’d known her. It’s possible it had worn off after sixty-some years of living in Minnesota.
Wait. Was she even southern? Or was I just assuming because she referenced any time line with the Civil War?
I could have just asked her, but I was too embarrassed.
“I think .. A low
clink
as she moved bottles around. “Hmm.” She withdrew ... root beer. Root beer-flavored potato juice.
“Now you’re just torturing me.”
“Never, Majesty. I live and die at your very command.”
Clunk!
Back went the root beer bottle. And here came ... gah, I was afraid to look ...
Mint.
I exhaled with relief, a habit from being alive I hadn’t dropped yet. Tina chuckled again—she had a great, low laugh, sort of like ripping velvet. “I think, yes,” she said, setting the frosty bottle on the counter. “Join me, my queen?”
“Not on a bet” She drank it neat. “Isn’t it cheaper to just guzzle rubbing alcohol?”
“Yes indeed, but much less satisfying.”
“Good hunting?” As soon as I asked, I grimaced. Whoever Tina’d snacked on, they were human beings. Not the weekly deli platter from Rainbow Foods.
Except sometimes, that was almost the most they could hope to be. There were such
shits
running around, all the time.
I still remember a meal from over a year ago ... I’d happened on a pedophile who was just lowering the pants of her victim. I’d meant to knock her out and save the middle-school boy. Instead, I’d nearly put her through the wall. The
brick
wall. The good news was, when she came to she was so rattled she started compulsively confessing to ... everything. The bad news was, after it happened? I hardly ever thought about the useless cow.
It wasn’t that I felt bad. I felt bad because I didn’t feel bad. Not
too
migraine-inducing.
“... but after, he promised to turn himself in and return all the bootlegged copies of
Ironman Three
and
Spiderman Eight.”
“And the populace sleeps in peace. Bootleg. So, uh, that word. I bet it takes you back ... to moonlit nights in the deep South when you ran moonshine for your many cousins ...”
“Majesty?”
“Unless, of course, it doesn’t. Take you back I mean. So does it?”
Tina’s brow was knitted, so much so that for a scary moment she appeared to sport a unibrow. “I beg pardon, my queen?”
“Never mind. So, you’re probably going to bed.”
Tina glanced down as if assuring herself that, yes, she was clean and freshly tubbed, and also wearing a nightgown as opposed to, say, a cocktail dress. “Yes, I was, but if you require anything at all—”
“No, no. No. I’m—” What exactly? Sulking and waiting for Sinclair to cough up an apology? Worrying about my sister? Not using the front hall so I wouldn’t think about Antonia and Garrett? “I’m using the door, that’s what I’m doing!”

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