Betsy 4 - Undead and Unreturnable Read online

  "That you're watching," he said quietly. "We're all watching."

  "I think I'll take the 'we'll be there for you' tactic on that one."

  "Either way. Come here, now, darling, sit down." He rubbed my shoulders, and I sat on the bed. "You've had a tough week, haven't you?"

  "It's my new worst week ever," I sniveled.

  "Well, in light of our new 'tell all' policy, I have some news for you."

  I sighed and rested my forehead on his shoulder. "Who's dead now?"

  "The Star Tribune has picked up your 'Dear Betsy' column."

  "What?" I jerked my head up. "There've only been, what? Two newsletters? And I thought that was impossible! Anybody seeing the newsletter!"

  "Supposedly it was. Marjorie is beside herself. Heads will roll, I can assure you. Possibly literally. We suspect either a member of the Tribune payroll is a vampire, or an enterprising human hacked into her system and gave it to a reporter."

  "So what's—what's going to happen?"

  "Fortunately, feedback seems to be that it's not to be taken seriously. The editor thinks it is a joke, the readers seem to like it, and the readers who are vampires are keeping their mouths shut."

  "So only a few people in the city know it's a real letter to real vampires?"

  "Yes. And because Marjorie's discretion is on the line, she is moving heaven and earth to find out who is responsible. I imagine we'll have some answers on that in a short time."

  "Well… I guess things could be worse."

  "They are about to get that way, I assure you."

  I groaned and flopped down on the bed. "This whole tell-each-other-everything debacle, you're punishing me for it now, aren't you?"

  "Darling, you know I live to obey your slightest whim. When before, I sought to protect you from the problems of governing a nation, now I see it was merely my ham-handed way of repressing you. Well, those days are over!" he declared, over my moans of horror.

  "Whereas in the past I felt discretion was the better part of valor—"

  "Oh, now you're just making shit up to fuck with me."

  "—now all must be revealed, constantly."

  "Look, I figured out that you don't keep things from me to be mean. You just can't help it."

  "Ah, but starting now, I shall help it."

  "I get that you think solving problems for me proves your worth."

  He sniffed. "I wouldn't go that far."

  "You can't help it, you're in lurrrrrvvv."

  "Stop that. I was going to tell you, Jon has transcribed nearly the entire first draft of your little tell-all."

  "I thought it was going to be, like, a paper."

  "It's turning into a book, dear. Three hundred pages at last count."

  "Oh, he told you this?"

  "It's possible I had Tina hack into his Sidekick," he admitted.

  "Nice! Well, this is nothing new, right?"

  "Given the fallout from the Tribune picking up your column—"

  "What fallout? I thought everybody agreed it was a joke."

  "—I got Jon alone and convinced him he had never written the book, never had the idea, never had any interest in your life story."

  "Oh, Christ."

  "Then I erased it."

  "Oh, Sinclair. Oh, boy." I put my hands over my eyes. "This is going to be a bad one."

  "You may proceed," he said, "with the yelling."

  I tried to get myself under control. He did it out of love.

  Misguided, weird love, but love. He's trying to protect you. In a misguided, weird way.

  "Okay, Eric, that was bad. Pretty bad. And I think, after what Jon has done for us, I think you should undo your mojo."

  "But I went to all that trouble," he explained patiently, like I didn't get what he had done, "to be sure he forgot everything."

  "And now I want you to make him remember! Look, he'll flunk his class, among other things. You really want him moping around here because he got an F in bio or whatever the hell it's called? And second, I agreed to let him do this. So by you sneaking in and undoing it, I look bad. Really, really bad."

  He looked at me for a long minute. "I admit," he said at last, "I had not considered it in those terms. Your authority should not be undermined. Even by me."

  Especially by you, but that was a topic for another time.

  "So you'll undo it?"

  "I will try," he said. "And in the spirit of full revelation, I must tell you I'm not sure it will work. I've never tried to undo a mojo, as you call it."

  "What, in your whole life you've never made a mistake?"

  He smiled. "No, but no one ever asked me to go back and try to rectify my errors. No one ever dared."

  "Probably why you've got such an attitude problem."

  "Probably," he agreed, and pulled me into his arms.

  I wriggled around until I was straddling him. "I don't know about you, but I haven't eaten in days."

  "You've been busy," he said, and then he groaned as I found his zipper and pulled. "I must say, I didn't think I would enjoy this full disclosure rule you've implemented… ah… don't stop doing that…"

  "Aren't you funny," I said.

  "Consider it an order from your king."

  "I'm hysterical with laughter here." I wiggled down, pulled down his pants as I went, and divested him of his socks. Frantic, I yanked at his black boxer shorts until they were little cotton shreds, took his dick in my hand, moved it out of my way, and bit him right on his femoral artery.

  His hands plunged into my hair and he made fists, almost hard enough to hurt, but not quite. He was so good at that. At coming up to the line but not crossing it. I tried not to think of all the practice he must have had to get so good.

  His cool, salty blood nearly overflowed my mouth, and for the first time in days, I wasn't morbidly thirsty. Instead I drank from him and felt his cock pulse in my hand, felt him give way, felt him helpless, literally helpless in my hand as he spurted all over the sheets, as he gave control to me.

  I love you. Love you. Love you.

  And the worst week ever was redeemed.

  Chapter 40

  "Look, you don't even have to go to the florist, okay? I've got a book full of pictures for you to look at."

  "Darling, I trust your taste impeccably. I'm sure whatever you choose will be appropriate to the… lovely occasion."

  "You're lying! You think I keep my taste in my butt!"

  "I am certain," Sinclair said, totally straight-faced, "that I never used that phrase."

  Tina, who had been coming into the kitchen to get God-knows-what, abruptly turned around.

  "Freeze!" I shouted. "I've got a bone to pick with you, too."

  "How can I serve you, my queen?" she asked, all innocent. When she wanted, she could look like a sixteen-year-old kid.

  "How about not hacking into my friend's computers and helping Sinclair eat three hundred pages? How about that?"

  Tina looked over at Sinclair, who had suddenly rediscovered that the Wall Street Journal printed stock prices. No help there.

  "Look, I know you're the king's man—er, so to speak—and you feel like you can't say no to him, but—"

  "It's not that."

  "What?"

  "Not entirely that," she amended. "If I may be frank, Majesty, I don't think his little school project was at all appropriate. You do have enemies, you know."

  "Tell me about it." I glared at the two of them, the undead Frick and Frack.

  "I mean human enemies. Why make things easier for them? There is a difference between dishonesty and discretion."

  Oh, like either of those two would know. "Look, just leave my friend's stuff alone, okay? I've already talked to Sinclair about this, and he's going to undo the 'you are getting verrrrrrry sleeeeeepy' thing."

  "He is?"

  "I am," Sinclair said to the paper.

  "Love," Tina said, gaping. "It's truly an amazing thing to behold."

  "Shush, Tina."

  "My king." F
ighting a smile, she grabbed the mail and walked out.

  "As for you. You don't even have to pick the flowers you like, okay? Just pick the ones you absolutely loathe, can't stand the sight of, and I'll be sure those aren't anywhere near you on the big day."

  "Darling," he said, turning the page, "I just don't have intensely strong feelings for flowers."

  "But you were raised on a farm! You must have some preferences."

  "Darling, I have a penis. Ergo I have no preferences."

  "When are you and your penis going to get with the program?" Jessica asked, coming in the door Tina had just left by. "Just do what she asks, and it'll all be over that much sooner. For everybody."

  "Way to make it sound fun, Jess."

  "It's not fun, Bets. Not for anyone but you." She pulled up a chair and sat down. Eric was looking at her with some interest.

  "At last," he said. "Someone says it out loud."

  "Eric, she's been planning this wedding since she was in the seventh grade. Honest to God. She used to bring Brides magazine to study hall, and she'd show me the dress, the tux, the cake, the flowers. She even had the name of your kids picked out. She still does that."

  "Hey, hey," I protested. "I haven't looked at an issue of Brides in years. A year. Six months. Look, let's get back on track, all right? Sinclair? You look okay? You're kind of pale, even for you."

  "No, no, I'm fine." He managed a smile. He had looked sort of ghastly while Jessica was laying it out. "You realize, after this… wedding… you'll also be 'Sinclair.'"

  Oh. My. God. I actually had managed to put that huge problem out of my mind. It was easy, what with the ghosts and cops and serial killers on my radar. But now, it was baaaaaack, looming in my head like a big dead flower. For a second I was totally horrified. Then I recovered. "No, I won't. I'm keeping my name."

  "No, you are not."

  "Like hell!"

  "Uh-oh," Jessica muttered.

  "If I have to go through this farcical event, the very damned least you can do is be Mrs. Elizabeth Sinclair."

  "What does farcical mean?" I asked suspiciously.

  "Happy," Jessica said.

  "Oh. Okay. Look, Sinclair, I realize, being a million years old, that you can't help being an ancient disgusting chauvinist pig. But you're just gonna have to get over it in this case, because this is the twenty-first century, in case you haven't noticed, and women don't have to submerge their identities with their husband's."

  "The entire point of getting married," Sinclair began, "is to—" He cut himself off and tilted his head to the left. Jessica turned and looked, too. I couldn't understand what the fuss was about; it was Laura. She was, despite recent events, welcome in our home anytime.

  She eased the kitchen doors open and stepped in. "Helloooo? May I come in?"

  Jessica was staring. "What are you doing here?"

  Then I realized. It was Saturday night. Laura always went to Mass on Saturday nights. Said it kept her out of trouble, plus she could sleep late the next day.

  She shrugged and pulled up a chair. "Oh, you know. I just—didn't feel like going tonight."

  I was trying not to stare, and failing. "For the first time ever. Your folks are gonna kill me! They're gonna think I'm a bad influence."

  "You are," Jessica said.

  "It's no big deal, everyone. Maybe I'll go tomorrow."

  "Forgive us for staring," Sinclair said. "It's just that you are so… devout. It was a surprise, seeing you here when you are usually… elsewhere."

  "It's no big deal," she said again, and everyone heard the warning that time.

  Luckily (?), George the Fiend chose that moment to also walk into the kitchen. I guess we were having a party and nobody told me.

  "Now what's he doing up here?" Jessica asked. "To think, I almost didn't come in here for a glass of milk. Look at all the stuff I would have missed."

  "I dunno," I said, staring. George was dragging half the blanket he'd crocheted, hopped up on a kitchen stool, drank all my tea—the first time he'd evinced evidence in anything but blood—spat it out on the floor in disgust, and started crocheting again.

  Laura cleared her throat. "I, ah, want to take this chance, Mr. George, to apologize for—for what I did the other night. I was picking a fight because I was angry at someone else, and that's a poor excuse. In fact, it's no excuse. So again, I apologize. I'm very, very sorry. And I'm sorry to you, too, Betsy, and you, Eric, for laying hands on one of your subjects."

  I shrugged it off with a mumbled "Well, what are ya gonna do?" but Sinclair, doubtless used to this sort of thing, waved it off with a kingly, "Think no more of it, Laura, dear. We know your actions are normally above reproach."

  Yeah. Normally.

  "He seemed better after I fed him," Laura suggested.

  I restrained the impulse to slap my forehead. Of course he was better, duh! He got better after drinking my blood—queen's blood. How much good would the devil's bloodline do him? He could probably do my taxes by now.

  "That's the stuff I got him last week," Jessica said, staring at the lavender blanket, which was almost as big as my bed. "He must be just about out. I'll run over to the fabric store and get him some more."

  "Red, please," George the Fiend said.

  Pandemonium. Chaos. And no matter what we tempted him with, how much we cajoled, how often Sinclair ordered, or how often I begged, he didn't say another word.

  Chapter 41

  "Is this the third date? Or the fourth?"

  "Nosy bitch," Jessica laughed. She checked her diamond earrings for the twentieth time.

  "Yes," I assured her. "They're still there." I'd been saving to get her the matching pendant at Tiffany's; the classic blue box was on the swag-draped parlor mantel right this minute.

  Okay, Sinclair was helping me. Not that he was big into Christmas. But he liked the idea of giving Jessica an extravagant gift. It would be the first time we gave anybody a present together. "You look like a tasteful Christmas tree."

  "Meaning my ass looks fat in this green dress."

  "No, no. You just look very spirit-of-the-seasony."

  "Did you ever figure out what to give Sinclair?"

  "Yeah. I took back asking him to un-mojo Jon."

  "So now Jon will"—Jessica thought this out—"not remember he wrote the book about you."

  "Right. I mean, it's a rotten thing to do, but I can't just think of myself on this one. There's a bunch of vampires counting on me to look out for them—I finally figured that out when I saved George from Laura. Well, a few days after I saved George from Laura. Even if they don't know I'm looking out for them, I'm supposed to be. So… no book of my life."

  "Well, if that's what being the queen means to you, then, because you're the queen, I guess that's it."

  "Yeah, that's it. I mean, I can hardly marry Sinclair and protect vampires and not be the queen. Even for me, that's pretty stupid."

  "Stupid's a harsh word," she said absently, fluffing her lashes with mascara.

  "Isn't Jon supposed to turn in his bio after Christmas break?"

  "Yeah." I laughed evilly. "Sinclair's doing it for him. He'd better not fob it off on Tina, either. A history of the life and times of Grover Cleveland. Apparently Sinclair knew him." I laughed harder. The perfect punishment!

  "You talk it out with Laura yet?"

  "No." I quit laughing. "I don't know what to say without sounding like a jerk. I guess—I guess we're just hoping it was a slip. I mean, look who her mom is. She's bound to have a short temper. And it's not like the guy didn't have it coming."

  "Is that what the party line is? He had it coming?"

  "No," I almost snapped, "but it's the best I can do. I don't see Nick crying about it."

  "Big-time promotion, probably," she admitted. "And that's what we're celebrating. The Task Force is just about done. Nick's going back to his everyday stuff. And the Driveway Killer's done. And the Scomans are going to have a great Christmas."

  "Assuming she ever sto
ps having nightmares."

  "Your little ghost told you that? What a voyeur."

  "I heard that!" Cathie said, and then popped back out, probably to nag (not that they could hear her) the guys putting up the tree. We were late with it this year, and out of deference to Sinclair and Tina, Jess, Marc, and I didn't join in the trimming festivities. It had been a big enough fight just letting Jessica order one and have it sent to the house.

  Needless to say, those two would be avoiding the entire east wing of the house until after New Year's.

  "Obviously, if she'd had to pick between her life and nightmares, it's an easy choice. Still, I wish we could have spared her the entire experience."

  "Come on. You saved her. And the bad guy got his. And you're getting married! Probably."

  "What?"

  "Well, I'm pretty sure. And I'm finally getting laid."

  "It's a Christmas miracle," I said with mock joy. "With devils and vampires and dead serial killers."

  "It's just gotten so commercial," she agreed, touching up her lipstick. "Want to sneak down and put a cross on the tree later?"

  "No, I'd better not. Poor things, they've already got the heebie-jeebies."

  "Boy, there's a phrase I never thought would be associated with bad-ass vampires."

  "Any kind of vampires. Anyway. We'll work on that for next year. If they're going to stay out of the room altogether, why not put a cross on the tree?"

  She laughed and slung a black cashmere wrap over her bony shoulders. "Good point. Now, on a scale of one to ten, with one being ratty-ass you, and ten being Halle Berry—"

  "Nine point six. Definitely."

  "What a liar you are, my girl." She kissed me, leaving an orange smear on my cheek, and floated out on a cloud of Chanel.

  Chapter 42

  And I in my kerchief, and Ma in her cap… that was all of it I knew, unfortunately. My mom could recite the whole thing by heart, all twenty verses or however many there were. Jess, Marc, Jon, and I were heading over there tomorrow night for Christmas Eve dinner. She'd tell it to me then.