Undead and Unstable (15 page)

“Yeah. It was a short list.” I explained that I’d made the list not long after my attic breakdown in front of Zombie Marc. “Me. Laura. Or Ancient Me. And I knew it wasn’t me. And then we knew it wasn’t Laura. So…” I shrugged. “Like the Bad Book says,
the Queene shalt noe the dead
.”

“Well done, my queen.” Sinclair looked and sounded impressed. Which made me feel awful. I didn’t want to be logical and calm and smart. I didn’t want to grow into the talking ice sculpture that was Ancient Me. I wanted to be a flapping dumbass. I wanted to be the kind of person who was so dumb, when they played Russian Roulette they loaded all the chambers. I did
not
want to be smart. Not if it meant being her. Never, never her.

Sinclair seemed to read my expression pretty accurately, because he added, “I do not believe it. You could never hurt me, as I could never hurt you. I do not believe it.”

“You do, too!”

“Very well.” He instantly reversed course, the better to soothe you with, my dear. “I am not afraid.”

“Well, you would be if you’d been paying any attention the last five years.” I sniffed, comforted. “What are we going to do, Eric?”

“Truly things have come to a wretched pass.” He put his hands over his heart and made like he was going to swoon. “Calling me by my first name, almost as if we were husband and wife. The horror of it!”

“Shut your cake slot, Sink Lair.”

“Much better.” Weirdly, he did seem relieved.

“We’ll fix it, Betsy. Of course, I have no idea how…” Marc was stroking his chin and looking thoughtful. And Laura looked like she’d been given a death-row reprieve. “But we will.”

“We absolutely will,” Laura agreed. “Betsy, I’m so sorry about keeping this from you … I couldn’t tell you. I thought I could fix it—head it off—if I kept the Book from you while I figured out what to do, but my mother jumped in with both feet and … and…”

“I don’t blame you, Laura.” Though in that moment with Sinclair I had forgotten she and Marc were even in the room. “I know you wanted to help. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d gone klepto out of spite.” I looked around the room at the glum faces. “C’mon, guys! It’s not the end of the world. At least, not yet.”

They obviously didn’t believe me, but were too polite to tell me to my face. So I forced brisk cheer into my tone, as much for my own sake as theirs. If I didn’t fake cheer, I was gonna go into some very real hysterics, possibly for several months.

“I’ll tell you what. We’re gonna fix this. And here’s the fun fact: I don’t give a tin shit how many laws we have to break or how much blood we have to drink. If we have to lie, we’re gonna do it.”

Marc was rubbing his temples and staring at the floor. “Time is a wheel.”

“Don’t start with the wheel … if we have to cheat, we’re gonna do it.”

He rubbed harder. “There’s something familiar about this…”

“As God is my witness, Sinclair will never be skinned again!”

“That is sweet, my own.” Which sounded sincere until Sink Lair lifted a hand to his mouth to turn his laugh into a cough (“Hee-hhmmphhhh!”) and then fake-cleared his throat. (Or would it be
faux
cleared? Jessica’s the one who took French, I’d have to ask her…) “I think I just fell in love with you all over again.”

“Gone with the Wind!”
Marc shouted, leaping to his zombie feet. “You’re cribbing prose from the estate of Margaret Mitchell, you thieving whore!”

“Am not. And I am
not
a thief. Okay, I am. Who cares? Focus, Lazarus. We’ll fix it. It’s gonna be fixed. Okay?”

I forced a smile. They did, too, and their smiles were about as real as mine.

TWENTY-FIVE

Hours later, when we were alone, Sinclair reached for me,
and I clung to him. Things started to get naked when we both heard Marc shambling around the house, no doubt looking for a project. A door to paint. A shelf to straighten. A dead cat to dissect.

“Odd how now that we know he is here, we cannot
not
hear him.”

“I can’t,” I groaned, letting go and stepping back. “Sinclair, I can’t. There’s a wide-awake zombie running around, and I apparently have you skinned and then write a book out of you.”

“Not conducive to horniness,” he admitted, and since it was the first time he’d used that word, I had to laugh.

Then we both went to bed, and pretended to try to go to sleep. Him with his thoughts, and me with mine.

I reviewed my to-do list:

1) Save Marc

2) Save the future

3) Buy frozen strawberries

4) Save myself and/or kill myself

5) Remind the Ant she’s stuck with that dumb pineapple-colored shellacked hairstyle for all eternity

6) Pick up BabyJon after future is saved (unless I’ve killed myself)

7) Hit Macy’s for semiannual shoe sale

A lot to do! Better get started. Or at least, I’d better do more than I had so far. And I instantly forced myself not to think about BabyJon or my mom. They were out of this, they would know nothing about any of this disaster until it was fixed, or I was out of the picture. It was something so fundamental, I knew without taking a poll that everyone in the house would agree. So: no Mom and no BabyJon. Maybe forever, if things went the way I was afraid they would.

I thought about the BabyJon from the future—he had been the best thing about the future. A handsome, charming grown man. Kind and big-hearted. Blessedly normal—not a vampire, not anything supernatural as far as Laura and I could tell.

“Holy God! BabyJon!”

“Aw, man.” Gorgeous Grown BabyJon covered his face, then dropped his hands and shook his head. “I outgrew that nickname a while ago, Mom.”

“Mom?”

“Okay, technically you’re my big sister—like you’re Aunt Laura’s big sister—”

“Aunt L—”

“But I grew up calling you Mom. But if that’s freaking you out, since I’m still shitting in my crib where you come from—”

“That’s a weird way to put it,” Laura said.

“Look, I’ll try to master the whole toilet thing as quickly as I can, but bottom line, right now in your when, I’m suffering the heartbreak of fecal and urinary incontinence.” He threw up his hands. “I’m owning it, okay? Don’t judge.”

It was too much. I burst out laughing. And BabyJon—Jon, I s’pose—joined me. It was kind of nice. I remembered it for a long time, because it was about the only nice moment we had the ninety minutes we were there.

I tossed and wriggled and tossed some more. Sinclair lay
like a six-foot-four stone beside me. Meditating, or thinking hard, or zonked for the day. I didn’t know. What I did know was that for one of the few times in my undead existence, I couldn’t conk out. Shit, half the time I’d just flop over wherever I was when the sun came up—much to the amusement of pretty much the entire household.

Great. Of all the stupid times to evolve…

Please God it’s not true. Please God it’s a trick. Please.

I’ll do anything. Anything to save him, even if it means putting a bullet in my mouth. But c’mon, God, I can’t do it alone. Help a vampire queen out, willya? Help me and I’ll owe you a big favor. Help me and in return, I’ll …
I tried to think of something worth bargaining for.
I know! I’ll use some of Sink Lair’s vast amount of money and buy a Payless Shoe franchise. And work in it. Every day, I’ll work in it. I’ll pull double shifts in the motherfucker from now until the end of the universe. I’ll sell cheap knockoffs to everyone who comes in the door. I’ll have those silly “buy one pair, get the second half off” sales. If he’ll live. If I don’t kill him.

Please God it’s not true.

As for what Sinclair was thinking, I had no idea. Our telepathic link was down, or he was keeping his thoughts from me. I couldn’t blame him. I wouldn’t blame him.

But it hurt, anyway.

TWENTY-SIX

Sinclair was gone when I woke up at 4:45 p.m. He didn’t
have to sleep all day; he could be out and about in daylight, so long as daylight didn’t touch him. He was often in his office on the first floor, or reading something stuffy and moth-nibbled in the library. I had no desire, none at all, to look for him. Shit, after what we’d found out last night, I could barely look
at
him.

I heard footsteps, pained, labored, waddling footsteps, and then a knock on the door, which opened at once at my weary, “C’mon in, Jess.”

She stood framed in the doorway in all her enormity, holding a six-inch sub from Subway in each hand. “Laura told us,” she began. “How can we help?”

Like the cool, collected undead monarch I was, I thanked her politely. By which I mean I let out a cry and launched myself at her, then started sniveling on her shoulder. She staggered back a step, then regained her equilibrium.

“What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do?”

“You’ll figure it out, Bets. You’re not alone.” Lettuce from her sandwiches dribbled down my back as she soothed me with onion breath. “We’ll all help. We will. It’s a trick. Got to be—you’d never hurt Sinclair. And even if you were capable of—of that, it’s nothing that has already happened. Only something that might, but you’re forewarned and all. Okay?”

“Okay … ow!”

“What?”

“Your sto—your, um, adorable baby just kicked me.”

“Welcome to my pregnant world,” she replied, unperturbed.

Pass
. I straightened from her sandwich-ey, baby-kicking embrace and brushed a tomato slice out of my hair. “Thanks. I know it’s a cliché, but I really needed that.”

“No problem.”

“And you’ve got a point. I’d never hurt him. And as for the Book of the Dead? This doesn’t seem like a me kind of thing to do. First off, why human skin? What, OfficeMax was closed? I wrote it in the future … plastic and paper suddenly weren’t available?”

“I’m convinced.”

“And I’m sorry about before.”

“Current events—future events—gave us all some perspective, I think,” she said, smiling.

“Laura told you?”

“Yeah. She was just leaving when I came downstairs. She told me the whole weird thing.”

“That was … helpful.”

“Sure. She’s your sister.”

“And the Antichrist.”

“And your sister,” Jess said patiently. “You know she cares, even if she’s kind of conflicted about vampires.”

“She’s not around so much these days. She’s spending a lot of time in hell. And maybe even worse places … she’s not like us, Jess.”

“
You’re
not like us, Bets.” She said it with a smile, but she still said it.

“Okay, good point.” One I occasionally hated, but this wasn’t the time to quibble. “But where is she when she’s not here? And where’s hell, exactly? When Laura teleports or evilly beams herself or whatever—which she’s gotten very good at very quickly—where does she go?”

“Unknown.”

“What, unknown? That’s it, Spock? That’s all you’ve got?”

“Betsy, what do you want from me? Some things, they’re just not explainable or understandable. Hell is where hell is because that’s where hell
is
. Satan does what she does because that’s her nature. Laura can teleport through space and time and sometimes has wings and sometimes doesn’t and can make weapons made of hellfire that nobody can touch except you by thinking them up, and there is no logical explanation for any of it.”

“Lame.”

“Make a list of questions and ask God when you see him.”

“Oh, I have been. I’ve got
plenty
to ask that absentee landlord of a deity.”

“You should just ask Laura those things. I bet she’d tell you.”

“I’m kind of scared you’re right.”

“Oh. You’re asking me questions because you’re not sure you want the answers.
That’s
a little on the lame side.”

“Yeah … listen, do you know where Marc is? I have to go talk to him right away.”