It would be like every movie that ever had a villain trussed in a corner ("Nobody puts Villain in the corner. "), except that unlike poor unsuspecting fictional characters, I should have known better. The villain would wait until there was sufficient distraction (like the heroine roaring off to see her mom and then falling abruptly out of touch with the home base because she ran into a streetlight and then went to hell), then escape just long enough to fuck things up all the way around. Then, recapture. Then defeat. But all too late to undo whatever it was the bad guy did while he was unfettered.
So, as we rushed around a corner, I already knew what to expect, was already pissed at myself for being such a movie cliche dumbass.
In fact, I was so sure of what we'd find, I ran into the closed and bolted door so hard I gave myself a nosebleed and actually grayed out for a minute.
It took a long, long time to fall down. Long enough for me to think about what a pleasant surprise it was, about how the movies didn't necessarily get everything right, that I should have had more faith in my roommates, that . . .
. . . that . . .
(Ow. ) CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
". . . be all right?"
". . . her a minute. "
". . . right into the door, I couldn't-"
". . . bleeding stopped. "
". . . anything I can do. "
Jumble. Jumble of soft, soft words in my soft, soft head. Getting clearer, though. Oh, goody. I was going to live. I just wasn't going to live it down.
"No one is blaming you, Laura. " My husband's voice. And that was his hand, holding mine. "I'm going to carry her up to our bedroom, and-"
"No! God, no!" My eyes flew open. "Please. Please don't go in there, and don't take me in there. You don't know, Sinclair. You just don't. " I looked around the small circle of faces. Tina, N/Dick, Jessica, Laura. "None of you can understand the true horror of what's happening in our room right now. "
"You'd better be concussed at the very least," my best friend informed me. "Do you know how many stairs I gotta climb to get out of this shithole?"
"And Sinclair was wrong," I told my sister. "I'm blaming you. Why didn't you stop me?"
"How could I? You were like the bionic woman down here. I barely saw the door was locked before you smacked straight into it. "
"Well, I . . . I thought we would find something else. " I felt something wet on my lip and wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. My entire face ached. My hand came away trickling my sluggish undead blood. "Dammit. Tell me I didn't break my nose. "
"You seem fine," Sinclair soothed.
"Ha! If you've got a medical degree, Sink Lair, it's the first I'm hearing about it. " I started to sit up, ignoring the many helping hands. It's not that I wasn't grateful. Okay, I wasn't grateful. But I was more embarrassed than anything else. So intent on rescue I ran smack into a closed door and knocked myself out . . . not too lame. "Where's Marc? Shouldn't he be trying to take my nonexistent pulse?"
"In there. " Tina pointed to the closed, bolted door.
"Not that Marc. The one that's alive, sane, and not (too) creepy. "
"In there. "
I blinked, then realized what she'd said. "What? You've locked him in there with the Marc Thing? What, did he lose the coin toss?"
"No, it's-"
"What the hell is the matter with all of you?" Sheesh. I go back to hell for a couple of hours and everyone back home checked their IQ at the door.
I was on my feet in a flash, fumbling with the bolts and then yanking them aside to open the door. Instead of helping, they just stood around and watched me. Unbelievable! I heaved it open (sucker was heavy) and made ready to dash into the room to save Marc from the profound idiocy of my room-
Both Marcs, who had been in deep discussion, looked up at me.
"What?" they said in unison.
I stared. I had to; it was an interesting sight to say the least. I saw in an instant why my roommates hadn't been concerned: the Marc Thing was still trussed, and though our Marc had been locked in with him, he was festooned with crosses.
Yep. Crosses were hanging everywhere off our Marc . . . if he so much as shifted his weight, the Marc Thing flinched back and couldn't look at him. And the duct tape was holding up beautifully.
The perfect interrogation technique. I was stunned at the simple brilliance of it. Because who would the Marc Thing be most likely to talk to? His younger self, of course. And who'd be the best judge of whether his old dead self was prevaricating or covering up? His younger self, of course.
"Ohhhh. "
"Uh-huh," Jessica said, smug.
"Hey. " Our Marc waved casually. "You're back, finally. "
"Yeah, well, I've been busy. "
"So we hear. " Sinclair had taken out a handkerchief (who still carried those?) and was tenderly wiping the blood off my face. "Besting the devil and freeing our friend's soul. "
"I'm not sure how the soul/body thing works in hell," I confessed. "Think about it . . . Antonia's body was buried on Cape Cod. But now her body is back here, alive. It's not her soul. She's flesh and blood again. " Gah, didn't I know it. Mustn't . . . think . . . about bedroom . . . carnage . . . "I mean, how does that even work?"
Laura blinked. "Huh. I didn't even think about that, Betsy. That is weird. "
"I have so much to tell you. " I realized I'd been leaning on Sinclair since I'd climbed to my feet. "And, um, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about going back to hell. "
"No. You are not. "
"Okay, well, I'm sorry I-"
"You are not. "
"Okay, okay, but look how great it turned out!"
"That," my husband said, "is why you didn't wake up on the bottom of the Mississippi River. "
"Please. " I flapped a hand at him. "Like you'd ever hurt me. "
He sighed. He looked grim, but then leaned forward, pulled me into his arms, and rubbed his chin on the top of my head. I guess I was supposed to find that loving and comforting, but all it did was mash my sore nose. "No, but I can dream. "
"I gotta get going," our Marc said, standing. He backed out of the wine cell (I had decided the wine cellar needed a new name), which was smart. Dozens of crosses were pointed at the Marc Thing the whole time it took our Marc to cross to the doorway. He'd agreed to be locked in with it, but protected himself with tons of jewelry. Meanwhile, even if the Marc Thing did do something stupid, he still had the (three) bolts to get through. "I'll see you guys later. "
"Don't be a stranger!" the Marc Thing called with eerie, and inappropriate, cheer. Hearing that raspy cold voice sounding high and enthusiastic made me feel a little like throwing up. Or throwing myself at another locked cellar/ cell door. "Send me lots and lots and lots and lots of postcards! I love getting mail!"
Marc pushed past me and I let him. He'd had a look on his face I didn't like, but understood. He looked sort of . . . it was hard to describe . . . unplugged? Sort of vaguely uneasy but also thoughtful . . . like he'd been given tons of info and was having trouble making sense of it.
That was probably exactly what he was going through.
We watched him climb the stairs like an old man. When he was out of sight, I said, "It can be pretty terrible, finding out about terrible things that you haven't even done yet which will make the future terrible. I'll go talk to him. "
"Give him a few minutes," Sinclair advised.
"Yeah, you're right. The Marc Thing probably blew his mind. "
"That is it exactly," the Thing agreed. "We caught up on current events . . . I can't grow hair in new and gorgeous ways anymore, but perhaps a wig? Perhaps . . . a Justin Bieber?"
"Perhaps gross," I suggested.
"Is Antonia really back from hell? It's not that I thought Laura was lying. It just seems . . . it's incredible. "
"She's here," the Marc Thing said, "but she's not here. Antonia's dead. You just can't help yourself, can you? You
pretend you hate change, but it's what you constantly bring us to. "
"Pull the other one, Fang. Tina, you haven't even heard the whole story yet!" And wouldn't for a while, since Laura and I were in full agreement that the gang didn't need every single dull detail. I'd hit her with the highlights, emphasizing how cool and awesome I'd been in hell.
"Then lead on. " Sinclair courteously gestured to the stairs, bowing slightly at the waist. The bow did nothing to hide his amused grin. "And regale us, my own. "
So that's what I did. That's what kills me, that's the part I couldn't stop thinking about after. When I could bear to think about any of it at all.
I did. CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Half an hour later, we were back in smoothie central. I was just getting to the (abbreviated) part where Satan asked me what she'd have to do to get me to leave hell (I'd been there, and I could still hardly believe it) when Garrett and Antonia walked in.
"I don't even want to ask. Did you at least set our room on fire as you were leaving? Fire purifies everything," I said as an aside to Sinclair, who was staring at Antonia. "I'm pretty sure. "
"My God!" Jessica said, pointing. Normally she tried not to bust the first commandment when friendly vampires were around, but I think in this case, her shock was justified.
"My God!" Antonia said, pointing at Jessica's belly.
"I know," I said, nodding. "Shocking and disgusting, isn't it?"
"You're just so gigantic. " Antonia seemed hypnotized. I knew exactly how she felt. "How . . . how do you even move? What are you eating? Who are you eating?"
"Great to have you back," Jessica said dryly. "The place just wasn't the same without you. You can take that any way you want. "
Tina had crossed the room and, to my surprise, gave Antonia a spontaneous hug. It's not that they were enemies in the old days, it was just that spontaneous affectionate gestures from the coolly controlled Tina were unusual. "I'm looking right at you and I can't believe my eyes. " She looked at me and I was a little uncomfortable at the unmistakable admiration in her face. "And you did this? This is amazing. I am . . . amazed. " She shook her head. "Just . . . it's just very, very amazing. "
"Hey, a deal's a deal. " Vain jerk that I was, even I could get a bit uncomfortable with what looked like borderline hero-worship. Maybe not even borderline. "I promised Garrett I'd try to get Antonia back, and here she is. "
"No," Garrett said. They had both gotten dressed-and in their own clothes. That was interesting. That meant Garrett had never packed any of Antonia's things away.
"Hey, don't underestimate yourself. Antonia, he was right there with Laura and me the whole time. Wasn't he, Laura? You know the saying 'I'd follow you to hell and back'? Garrett really did!" Have I mentioned I loved this timeline's Garrett? Quiet, but cool under pressure, and utterly reliable.
Laura had been quietly sipping her smoothie and not contributing much to the conversation. This was cool by me, since I was definitely the hero of this story and was happy to explain that to anyone who wanted to listen. It had been a long few days. I didn't blame her for being drained, poor kid.
"No," Garrett said again. He'd brought his knitting bag into the kitchen and was having Antonia help him roll yarn. Which I never understood at all. The yarn comes in a nice wrapped-up little package . . . which the knitter then unwraps. Then rewraps into a ball. Dumb. I could feel myself slipping into a boredom-induced coma just thinking about it. "You didn't promise. "
"Uh-huh, sure, anyway, then the devil was all 'hey, bitch, you can't do that to me in my own waiting room' and I was all 'so call a cop, jerk' and-wait. What?"
"You didn't. "
Now we were all looking at him in surprise, even Antonia.
"It's not what you did, it's what I did," Garrett said, idly rolling eggplant purple yarn into an eggplant purple ball. "When Betsy came back-when she didn't remember Jessica being pregnant and didn't remember I was alive, I lied. She doesn't want to think she's a bad person, so she helped. But she didn't. " He looked at me for a half second, a casual glance before pausing to root around in his knitting bag. "She didn't promise. "
If he'd blown up, we couldn't have been more shocked. Garrett saying more than a sentence or two at a time was hard to wrap our minds around. To think that quickly . . . come up with a plan . . . execute the plan . . . and lie? It was almost unthinkable.
"I . . . I . . . I . . . " I hate the new Garrett! I sat there staring like a goldfish. "I have no idea how to react to this. "
(Privately. React privately. You and I will discuss this later, my own. At length. ) Sinclair's voice in my head was grim and cool, but he kept a pleasant expression on his face as he watched Garrett. Sometimes I loved this telepathy stuff.
(I don't know what . . . you know what? I don't even know what to think about this, never mind what to do. )
(Privately. At length. )
I casually picked up my smoothie and nodded. Damn right, privately at length. I didn't mind being tricked . . . okay, that wasn't true, I did mind. I mind that Garrett could lie, and do it so well no one questioned his word.
"Hey, Marc hasn't come back down yet. You know he's gonna make me play back all the gossip for him if he misses it. "
"I think he's trying to grab some shut-eye . . . he volunteered to pull a double tonight. "
"You want to-" I got up and grabbed an empty glass from the dish strainer, held it out to Jessica, and she carefully filled it with our new flavor experiment, blueberry-banana-and-more-blueberries. Sinclair was such a freak for strawberries, we were glad to have some variety. "I'll run this up to him. If he's snoozing, I can just throw it back in the freezer. "
"Tell him he can have the Mystery Machine for the weekend. He met somebody," she said to the group. "He wants to head up to Superior for a couple of days. "
"Good for him," I said, pleased. Marc's social life usually sucked rocks. I was glad he'd put himself out there again. Let me say for the zillionth time: how had he not found some great guy and settled down with a white picket fence to raise beagle puppies and pick fights with Superior Court rulings on gay marriage? That sounded like a pretty great happily-ever-after to me.
And Marc deserved it more than most. I always understood why he'd become a doctor . . . it was hard to imagine him doing anything else. Or being anything else. It was a cliche, but he was a giver. He was never happier than when a situation was improved (hysterical roommates with boy trouble, hysterical fourth grader with a scalp laceration, hysterical vampire queen in a Louboutin-less timeline) by his presence.
It didn't take long to get to his room-he was a floor above Sinclair and me, in a little-used section of the mansion. He had taken the smallest bedroom for himself, not for the size, but the view . . . when the leaves were gone, you could see the Mississippi from his window.
I rapped on his closed door. He wasn't blasting the Eurythmics, so he was probably awake. He said nothing soothed him to sleep faster than Annie Lennox's throaty, raspy, penetrating voice. It takes all kinds of people to make a world, or so my mother says.
"Marc?" I rapped harder. "I come bearing smoothies and gossip. "
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
And I started to get a bad feeling. It wasn't any one thing, it was all of them. Marc, spending who-knew-how-long with the Marc Thing. Not coming to the kitchen, but going up into his room, alone. No music blasting . . . but no one answering when he knocked. Any one of these things would be slightly odd. Add them together and . . . there it was! My bad feeling.
I tried the knob, already knowing it would be locked. And it was, of course. I'd seen this movie, too. And it was no problem for me; I raised my foot and slammed my heel into the wood just below the lock. The old, thin door didn't have a chance. It didn't have a chance because who worried about locked bedroom doors? Not us! That was who! No, we just worried about big, heavy, securely bolted doors in the basement, doors behin
d which we thought Marc was interrogating the Marc Thing. Doors behind which we thought the Marc Thing would tell us important things to fear in the future.
I was betting that was exactly what he had done.
I shoved the rest of the door open with a twist of my hip as I shot inside. The room was small, like I mentioned, and I immediately saw what he had done.
I saw what he had snuck off to do when no one would come looking for him, when no one would notice he was missing, when no one would stop telling stories about how great she was, when no one would call 911, when no one would stop him from killing himself, when no one would drown out the Marc Thing's voice urging, commanding, informing, ordering.
No one. Not even me? How about, especially not me. CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The Artist Formerly Known as Nick had taken care of everything. He had been incredible. Commanding and calm, he made the right calls and talked to the right people. He and Sinclair had a private conversation. Then he talked to us in a comforting way and we were glad he was there to help us, we were glad he was our friend, he did everything right, he made it all easier.
He did everything except bring Marc back to life, and if he could have done that, he would have.
I had held Jessica while she wept. Pulled her away from his doorway (my screams, I'm sorry to say, brought everyone on the run) so she wouldn't hear him being zipped into the body bag, so she wouldn't see him get loaded into the ambulance like a sack of grain.
When she was cried out, I tucked her in the way her own mother never had. I calmly waited until she fell asleep. I left her room.
Nick had left with the ambulance. Laura had left also . . . I didn't notice when. That was a problem. Her rapid comings and goings, her scary-fast grasp of teleportation . . . I would have to deal with that, and soon.
Not right now, though. Right now I had something else to deal with.
Sinclair and Tina were in the kitchen speaking in low voices. They stopped when they saw me.
"Are you-" Sinclair cut himself off when he saw my expression. "Very stupid question, I apologize. Nick went to the hospital. "
"I know. "