Betsy 4 - Undead and Unreturnable Page 6

  "I thought you said that was bigoted, asshole-esque, and twentieth-century."

  "Oh, you're going to start listening to me now?" I grumbled. "I'm not saying I wasn't right, but your timing's a little weird."

  "Now that that's settled, we have to decide on the appropriate post-gallery activity."

  "That's not all we've got to decide on," I muttered and was—surprise—ignored.

  "Because Detective Berry did the asking, I think we can assume he will want to treat you to whatever diversion you select."

  "Dude. You are getting way overinvolved in this. Do you obsessively plan our dates? Not that we've ever actually been on a date…"

  "Shut up, Betsy. For just this one time, it's about me. Go on, Eric."

  "So it must be something you both like, that will not be terribly expensive, and that will encourage him to see you again in a social capacity, but not be too intimidating or force a false sense of intimacy."

  I hitched up an imaginary belt. "That's a tall order, sheriff."

  "Dinner anywhere decent is out. So is coming back here for a drink; this house definitely sends a message. Your idea of fast food is Red Lobster, so that lets out activities that are, ah, middle class. Which means…"

  Jess waited. I waited. What the hell, I was curious. He could write a book. Nobody was good at dating. Everybody liked advice about it.

  "Coffee and dessert at Nikola's," he decided after a moment's thought. "The coffee is first-rate, the food is excellent, it won't be terribly expensive if you don't eat a full meal, and the biscotti is homemade."

  "Oooooooh. Sinclair, you are it."

  "Yes," he replied smugly.

  "I am so scared right now," I said.

  Chapter 14

  Before I could take Sinclair aside and ream him out for… well, everything, and before I could take Jess aside and get the real scoop, the doorbell rang.

  "Jessica, I would very much like to continue this conversation," he said, "but I must ask you to excuse us."

  "Oooooh," she replied. "Vampire biz, huh?" The evening must be one shock after another, because I hadn't heard this many ooooohs in… ever. "Who is it?"

  "No one," he said calmly, "I wish you to meet." He inclined his head toward the door to the stairs. "If you please."

  I didn't know what to say, and I could tell Jessica didn't, either. After an awkward couple of seconds, she shrugged and trotted out.

  "Scream at me for that," he said, walking toward the front door, "later."

  I was sort of terrified to see who it was, and as usual, my imagination ran away from me, because it was a perfectly nice-looking (beautiful, really) older woman. She looked like a librarian in her lilac blouse, gray skirt, sensible panty hose, and black pumps. They were leather and unscuffed.

  She herself looked to be in her fifties, with black hair streaked with silver, and a handful of laugh lines in the corner of both eyes.

  Her eyes.

  There was something weird about her eyes. Sinclair had eyes like that, sometimes. When he was pissed at what was going on (read: other vampires trying to kill me), his eyes went like that. They were so black you couldn't see into them, like those sunglasses state troopers wear. You looked in and—it's hard to explain—you only saw yourself. Most times I could see his softer side, his love and worry for me, his amusement, the good stuff. And the times I couldn't see those things, I usually had my hands too full to worry about it.

  I stared at her, a little scared, and she bowed and said something in (I think) rapid French.

  Sinclair gave her a smile that looked 85 percent real. "Good evening, Marjorie."

  "Your Majesties."

  "It's good to see you again."

  "And you, Sir."

  Sinclair bent and kissed her hand, European style, but before anybody could kiss mine, I stuck it out to be shook. She did, smiling at me, and I almost dropped her hand. She was cold, which I expected, and I couldn't see anything in her eyes but me, which I did not.

  An old one, I decided. A vampire who has seen absolutely everything—everything. And doesn't give a ripe shit anymore. About anything. I pitied them as much as I feared them. And I felt pretty sorry for them.

  "It's nice to meet you," I lied.

  She inclined her head. "Majesty. We have met before."

  "No, we haven't." I'd never have forgotten those eyes. Not even Nostro had eyes like those. No, we hadn't met. And after today, I hoped we never would again.

  "I was in a group that came to pay tribute after Nostro's, ah, accident on the grounds. Perhaps you didn't notice me."

  "No, definitely not." Then, because it's possible she was disappointed (but who could tell? she was a damn robot), I added, "Sorry if I missed you in the crowd."

  "Quite all right, my queen. Of late you had… a full agenda."

  I laughed unwittingly. The robot had been programmed to make amusing observations! "That's one way of putting it."

  "Something to drink? We have a Chateau Leoville Poyferre you might like."

  We did?

  "My king, that is as tempting an offer as I've received all year, but I must return to my duties. I only came by to beg the queen a favor."

  She did? At least she was speaking English.

  "Well," I said, "come on in."

  "Thank you, my queen."

  To save time, we took the parlor right next to the front hall, and ole Marjie got right to it.

  "As you know, I am head of the library downtown."

  She was a librarian! I pretended like I knew, and nodded.

  "I am starting a newsletter for the vampire community."

  "You are?"

  "It was your idea, my queen. 'Fer cryin' out loud, why don't you guys get a newsletter or something, I mean, cripes.'"

  Sinclair grinned. "It has the ring of authenticity."

  "When did I say that?"

  "On the occasion of our first meeting, which you do not remember."

  "Well, excuse me, I might have had a few things on my mind that day! If you don't come right up and introduce yourself, don't bitch about me not remembering you!"

  "I apologize again," Marjorie said tonelessly, "for all my shortcomings."

  "And you're stealing lines from Gone With the Wind!"

  At last, the robot loosened up a little. She even smiled a little. "You have seen the movie?"

  "Only about eight thousand times. It's not in the book, but it's a great scene… the one where Rhett almost gets called out, but he won't fight because he knows he can totally kick everybody's ass, and killing Charles Hamilton would be annoying and a big waste, so he just bows and leaves."

  "I think that touches on a rather large theme of the book and the movie," Marjorie said thoughtfully, crossing her ankles like a lady. "Because we see Rhett's bad side frequently, but usually we only see his good side in relation to Scarlett."

  "Yeah, like when he brought her the hat after the blockades tightened, and stole a horse for her so she could get out of town and see her mom. Who was dead. But Scarlett didn't know that."

  Marjie was smiling patiently through my excited interruption. "But here, he has a chance to shoot a man from his own hated planter class, in a way that is societally acceptable, and instead, he—"

  "Vamooses to the library, which is where he meets Scarlett and all that other stuff happens."

  "Love. Death. War." She sighed. "Those were the days."

  I ignored the uber-creepiness of the psycho librarian and went on in the same, uh, vein. "You know, I never thought of it like that! That from the very beginning, he was redeemable."

  Marjorie shrugged. "I have been reading that book since the year it was published, and every time, I find something new. Extraordinary!"

  Well, shit! Anybody who liked GWtW couldn't be that bad. Right? Right. "Listen, I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot. I'm terrible with names and faces, and I'm sorry I didn't remember you."

  "That's quite all right, my queen," she said, and this time it seemed like she m
eant it. "As I am here to ask a favor, I'm hardly in a position to sulk."

  "Yeah, well. Never stopped me. What's up?"

  "Well, as I mentioned earlier, I'm the local librarian."

  Local library? As in, there was more than one? "Sure, sure. I remember."

  Sinclair shot me a look, which I pretended not to see. He hadn't said a word for a couple minutes, but he seemed relieved we weren't going to scratch each other's eyes out.

  "And as I said, I will be starting a newsletter. It will be online and only viewable to vampires who have the appropriate passwords, etcetera."

  "You're not worried about someone hacking into it?"

  She smiled thinly. "No."

  "Right. Okay, go on."

  "I would like you to contribute to it, my queen."

  "Contribute… you mean, like write something for it?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Every month."

  "But… come on, Marjie—"

  "Marjorie." Sinclair and Marj corrected me simultaneously.

  "—you must have a million people who can do this for you."

  "That is not the issue, my queen. As you of course have discovered yourself, many of our kind are having, ah, difficulty accepting your new… position."

  "That was supertactful."

  Another tiny smile. "Thank you, my queen. I feel, and many of my counterparts concur, that this would be a way for the community to get to know you. Perhaps come to appreciate the… finer qualities that aren't, ah, immediately apparent."

  "Wow." I was shaking my head in total admiration. "You should work for the United Nations. Seriously. I mean, when he tries that stuff, I just get pissed."

  Ole Marjie inclined her head modestly. Sinclair gave me a look but still didn't comment.

  "What would you want me to write?"

  "Oh, whatever you wish. Neighborhood observations, essays on the eternal struggle between man vs. vampire, the pros and cons of keeping sheep—"

  "I've got it!"

  "Ah, the sheep issue. I admit, it can be controversial—"

  "Shut up about the sheep, Marj." Sinclair winced, but I didn't give much of a shit. "No, I'm going to do a Dear Betsy letter. What's the one thing I've wished I could have since I woke up dead?"

  "A sheep?"

  "Marjorie, enough! No, I wished there was someone I could ask about vampire stuff and I'd get the straight shit in return. Not political shit, not 'oh, it's okay if you kill people as long as you're aligned with so-and-so' stuff. Real stuff. It'll be a 'Dear Betsy' column. Ann Landers for vampires!" As Jess would say, "Oooooooh!" I could hardly sit still, I was so excited!

  Sinclair was rubbing his eyes. Marjorie looked at him for help and, correctly guessing none was forthcoming, looked back at me. "Ah… my queen, I admit I had a more, ah, scholarly approach in mind…"

  "Then boy, did you come to the wrong house. I didn't even finish college."

  "Oh."

  "I bet you did, though."

  "I have fourteen Ph.D.s."

  "Geek, huh?" Ack! Fourteen! No wonder I got her mixed up with a robot. "Anyway, back to me. When do you need my first column?"

  "Ah… whenever you wish. The newsletter will be published on your schedule, of course, and—"

  "I'll have it for you by the end of the week. There's not a moment to lose! Just think, there's new vampires walking around right this second who don't have a clue how to act!"

  "And you will infect them all."

  "What?"

  "I said, it sounds like we'll have a ball. I shall go back to the library at once and… prepare."

  "Great!" I jumped up. Sinclair slowly stood, like an old, old man. Marjorie stood the same way; it was weird. They both looked crushed and knowing at the same time.

  He kissed her hand again. "Thank you."

  "My king, I only do my duty."

  "For coming by."

  "Sir, I am your servant."

  "Yeah, thanks," I butted in, because I had the weird feeling they weren't talking about what I thought they were talking about. "Send me your e-mail address, and I'll zap the column over to you in the next few days. I'm TheQueen1@yahoo.com."

  Was that a shudder? Naw. My imagination was working overtime. And speaking of overtime, I could hear Marc park his shitbox car and come bounding up the walk. How he kept his energy after fifteen hours on his feet in the E.R. was beyond me.

  He popped the front door open and spotted us in the entryway. He covered the distance between us with half of one of his characteristic long lopes, and his green eyes brightened. "Hi, guys!"

  I was torn. On the one hand, as he was generally a depressed individual with big problems (gay, dying father, premature balding), I was always happy to see him happy. We had met when he was moments from throwing himself from the top of the hospital at which he worked too many hours. I talked him out of jumping and took him home. He'd been hanging out with us ever since. And in the past few months, he'd had his dad set up at a great private—I guess it was a hospice, except it was a private home, and the nurse who lived there only took care of three people. So it wasn't like being stuffed in a nursing home. Anyway, he'd gotten his dad squared away and visited him as often as he could stand (I guess it was kind of a strained relationship), he'd gotten a new boss at work, he was growing out his hair, and he'd had a date in the last five weeks.

  On the other hand, I wanted him nowhere near Marjorie. Marc was like a puppy around vampires… had no clue how totally friggin' dangerous they really were.

  "So what's doing? What are you guys up to? What's going on?" Arf, arf, sniff, sniff, sniff.

  Marjories delicate nostrils flared. "Your pet smells like blood."

  "Yeah, kid fell out of his tree stand and bonked himself a good one," Marc said cheerfully, ignoring—or not hearing—"pet." "Bled all over me. I had to get a new scrub top, but man, do I need a shower. Hi, by the way," he added, sticking out his hand. "I'm Marc Spangler. I live here with Betsy and Eric."

  She looked at the hand like he'd offered her a dead garter snake, and I could feel my eyes widen, practically bulge in their sockets. I got ready to rip her a new asshole—what was it with old vampires and being so shitty to regular people?—when Sinclair's hand clamped over mine… hard.

  I yelped just as Marjorie decided to shake Marc's hand. "You live here with them?" she asked.

  "Yup," he replied cheerfully. "It's not home, but it's much. Olivia Goldsmith wrote that, by the way."

  "Mmmm. She's the one who died of liposuction, yes?"

  "No," he corrected. "She died of complications after lipo."

  "I see. If you live here with them, why do you go to a job?"

  "Uh…" He actually thought it over for a couple seconds. "Because I'm not a two-legged parasite?"

  "Mmmm." She caught the neckline of his scrub top and pulled; with a squeak, he bent down to her. He had a foot and thirty pounds on her, but she manhandled him (no pun intended) easily, like he was a mannequin made of feathers. "But you haven't been bitten," she said to his neck. "Yet. Mmmm…"

  I opened my mouth. Take your fucking hands off him NOW was already in my head and trying to rush out of my mouth when Sinclair squeezed again. I groaned instead; I could feel the little bones in my hand grinding together. He wasn't hurting me, but I sure wouldn't want to spend a day doing that.

  "Marjorie, don't you have business to be about?" he asked calmly.

  Totally distracted, she looked up, and I was shocked to see her fangs had come out. "Eh? Oh." It was obvious, when she let go and Marc popped back upright, that she was massively disappointed. "Yes, of course. Forgive me. I haven't dined yet this evening, and it's made me forget my manners. I will take my leave."

  "Nice to meet you!" Marc chirped. And as she bowed and then let herself out the front door, I looked at Marc and saw it: he didn't remember the last minute. He'd had no sense of being in danger, no sense of inappropriateness or cruelty from Marjie. As far as he was concerned, he'd met a nice older lady on his way in, and now he was going to g
rab a shower.

  "I think I'll go grab a shower," he said. "Later, guys."

  I started to have a dim idea why Sinclair had a) gotten rid of Jess, b) been polite under extreme provocation, and c) didn't let me hang myself.

  "I hope you took a good look, dear," he said, listening to the car drive away. "Because that is the oldest vampire you're likely to ever meet."

  "She's an asshole."

  He shrugged. "She's old. It's… difficult to surprise her. You did, though." He smiled, and it was like the sun coming up on the last day of winter. "You did very well."

  "It's hard to hate anyone who has such good taste in movies. Though if she'd put another hand on Marc, I would've had to bring down the spank."

  He got this weird look on his face, like he was horrified but wanted to laugh, too. "You—you must not. Or, if you decide, you must discuss it with me first. Never touch her alone. Never, understand?"

  "Okay, Sinclair. Because that's sooooo me. Maybe we can form a committee and vote on every single thing."

  His eyes went narrow but he hung onto the smile. "Listen, please. She is old, as I have said, and she has many friends. Friends she made herself, if you understand my meaning. She is… I guess you would say she is set in her ways. The old ways."

  "Yeah, I get it. She's old; she's a stubborn jerk; she thinks humans are moronic lunch boxes; she's got a million friends; and if she doesn't like me, she could cause a lot of trouble for me."

  "Us," he corrected. "It's important to keep Marjorie and those like her on our side. When I went to Europe last fall…"

  He'd never talked about the trip much. Brought me back a nice present and mentioned he'd met up with friends, and that was that. "Yeah?"

  "Let's just say I was dismayed by how many vampires were not on our side."

  "Yeah, but you fixed it, right? You always fix everything. Like tonight. And ow, by the way." I flexed my hand, which, if I'd still been alive, would have been throbbing painfully. "Next time just wave a hand puppet at me, willya? I need this hand."

  "To write your 'Dear Betsy' column."

  "Was that an eye roll?" I demanded. "Are you rolling your eyes at me, Eric Sinclair?"

  "Oh, no, beloved. I would never so disrespect my queen."