Undead and Unforgiven

  “Beloved,” he said, pulling me into his arms and pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

  “Toldja. We had it covered. Tell me you didn’t mow down some poor unsuspecting dog walker to get back here.”

  “I’m almost certain I did not.” He took in Marc’s injuries. “Do you require assistance, my friend?”

  “Huh?” I could tell Marc was knocked sideways by “my friend.” He knew Sinclair was fond of him, but my taciturn husband had never said so in so many words. The reappearance of Lawrence in his life must have reminded him how valuable our roommates were. “No, don’t think so. I mean, normally I’d need about a hundred stitches, and there’s some tendon damage . . .” He was inspecting his arms as he diagnosed himself. “But it doesn’t hurt anymore. And the bleeding’s minimal.” He smiled a little. “Never thought I’d be so glad to be a zombie. If I’d been alive—”

  “You’d be dead,” I finished.

  “Yep. That about covers it.”

  “I am glad the hurt wasn’t worse,” Sinclair said fervently. “I do not— I have always had difficulty—cultivating and maintaining friendships.”

  “Maybe because you make friendship sound like a garden you have to prune and fertilize?” Marc suggested.

  “And I have always found friends to be a mixed blessing,” he finished, raising an eyebrow at Marc.

  “Aw, you know you’re our favorite vampire king,” Marc said and threw his bloody zombie arms around him in a spontaneous hug. He was so quick, and Sinclair was so surprised, it was like my husband had been attacked by a blizzard of elbows.

  “Ah. Thank you. There now.” He carefully extricated Marc’s limbs from his and patted his shoulder. “Thank you.” It was awkward beyond belief, but the slow, silly smile spreading across his face made it worth seeing. “Well. I admired Lawrence greatly for his accomplishments, his open mind, his fair dealings with the Indians—”

  We all winced at the non-PC term.

  “—and his devotion to duty. And it was good to see him again.” Remembering he likely never would again, Sinclair looked down at the body and his mouth went thin. “What a waste.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Stupid, willful child.”

  “Thaaaat’s a little harsh. She fucked up, but . . .” I prodded her little foot. “She paid for it.”

  “As did Lawrence. She found him first.”

  “How could a newborn take out someone like your friend? He’s powerful; he’s gotta know his way around a fight. Y’know, because of his background.”

  “What?”

  Marc looked at me. “The guy was the go-between between the Native Americans and the guys at Fort Snelling way back when.” At our stares, Marc added defensively, “What? I looked him up. That’s what I do around here these days, research. Well, that and the newsletter. And vodka runs. But anyway, this guy was pretty cool. The natives called him ‘No-Sugar-in-Your-Mouth’ because he always dealt straight with them. And he was looking out for Cindy’s family all that time, too. How can he be dead by some newly risen baby vamp?”

  “He loved her too much to fight for his life,” Sinclair said at the exact same time I said, “Because love, duh.”

  We glanced at each other and I continued. “He fought, sure—I can figure that out without seeing his body—”

  You do not want to see his body.

  I’m so sorry, sweetie.

  “—but he wouldn’t kill her to save himself.”

  “Fortunately the same could not be said of you, my friends.” He turned to me. “Nor you, my queen.”

  “Didja know, the head cheerleader beat me out for first runner-up in the Miss Burnsville pageant?”

  “Er,” was all my husband came up with as he eyed the corpse.

  “Not that I internalize these things for years and then lash out or anything.” That was my crown and sash, dammit!

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  “Because I am a petty, petty woman,” I finished.

  “Um, what?” Cindy, who’d been sobbing on my shoulder, looked up.

  Oh, nothing. Just reminiscing about your beheading. “Nothing,” I assured her. “C’mere, sit down.” I’d walked her to my office, which in the real MoA was the security office/dispatch center, and had her sit down in front of the bank of blank screens. “Thank you for asking to see me, and for apologizing.”

  She’d started to tense up as soon as her butt hit the seat, but relaxed a bit when I didn’t instantly start berating her or jabbing her with a pitchfork. She slumped back and sighed. “Well, since you were right about everything and I ruined my life by not listening, then killed the love of my life and broke into your house and tried to kill your friend, it was the least I could do.”

  “Oh.” I coughed. “That takes care of my ‘do you remember what happened?’ question.”

  There was a beat and then we both laughed, followed by Cindy clapping a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were so big I half expected them to pop out of her skull and dangle from the ends of her optic nerves. “Srry,” she mumbled against her palm, “’M srry nt fnny.”

  “Sometimes you have to laugh. It’s either that or go screaming foaming crazy. I’ve done both, and believe me, inappropriate laughter is better. So I take it getting chomped by a vamp was part of your plan? Remind me to talk to you about the shoes you wore, by the way.”

  “Yes.” She blinked at the shoes remark, then continued. “I remember most of that night, but some of it’s hazy. I remember the high points, though.” She shivered. “Low points, I mean. Anyway. Lawrence told us so many stories, I could spot a vampire by the time I was twelve. And he—you know. He wouldn’t do it. Turn me.”

  “Had you talked to him about this before?”

  “No. He asked what I wanted for my sweet sixteen and I told him: to be like you. So I wouldn’t die of cancer but also because . . . Well. You know.”

  “Suddenly girls asking for nose jobs for their sixteenth seems much less terrible. Although it is still terrible. So he wouldn’t turn you, and you got him to go over his head by taking a meeting with us . . .”

  “And when you wouldn’t—which I totally get now, by the way—I just . . . You know.”

  I shouldn’t keep prying, but Cindy had proven herself to have a formidable will. I could probably use someone like that for . . . I dunno. Something. “You rose—”

  “Yeah, the woman who killed me got me to go with her—”

  I snorted. “Like that was a challenge. You were a fish looking for a net.”

  She nodded. “She did it in one of those empty warehouses on First.”

  I nodded encouragement and made a mental note. Get a thorough description of the vampire and her lair—argh, who has lairs?—so Sinclair and I can find her and burn her alive. Burn her alive sooo much. “Totally deserted so nobody found me. And when I came back, I was—so thirsty. So—everything. All I could think about was feeding. I didn’t— It was the only thing that mattered. It was the world. Like Lawrence used to be my world and I—” She shook her head and didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Okay, so you went to his place—”

  “He just . . . let me. He didn’t fight hard enough to—I mean, he tried to keep me off him but he couldn’t make himself hurt me.” She shivered like a gale had blown through the office. Poor, poor idiot. Both of them.

  “And then you came to the mansion? For what, belated revenge?”

  “No!” The cheerleader I’d beheaded seemed genuinely shocked by the idea. “I just figured since you’d invited me in, I could go there.”

  I shook my head. “Old wives’ tale.”

  “Well, yeah, I know that now. But it was a lot closer than my dad’s house.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, God. My dad. Thank God I didn’t go there.”

  I kept up with the questions, trying to distract h
er from that thought. “Did you hurt anyone else?”

  “I can’t remember. Most of that night is a bloody blur. Oh! Your friend. Is he going to be all right?”

  “Oh, sure.” Marc’s injuries had completely healed by morning. Which made no sense. The theory was if he kept close to me, my unconscious zombie-raising powers would keep him whole. Around me, he was never more than a minute dead: body still warm, no rigor, etc. “He bitched half the night—understandably, but he insisted we binge-watch season two of Sherlock while he healed. I mean, he really milked it. He’s fine now.” Relatively speaking.

  “I’m glad. I don’t think I had time to hurt anyone else. I mean . . . you know.” Her lower lip started to tremble but she made a visible effort and her mouth firmed. I could practically read her mind: Crying won’t do shit. Own it already and get on with your death. “Besides Lawrence.”

  “Okay. Did you— Have you seen Lawrence?”

  She gasped, then shook her head. “There’s so many people . . . I’ve been too scared to really ask around.”

  “I can summon him if you—”

  “Please don’t. Please. I’m not— I can’t handle that right now. Please don’t.”

  “All right.”

  She slumped in her chair a little, relieved. “I’m glad I didn’t hurt you.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Or my husband. Right?”

  “Er.” She looked down. “I’m scared of the king.”

  “That is a sensible mind-set to have.” In fact, the body count would have been a lot lower over the decades if Sinclair’s enemies had adopted such a mind-set.

  “Lawrence told me—I mean, he and the king were friends before the king was the king. But he was super happy when he found out you guys were in charge now. He said that the old king was all that was bad about vamps, and that Sinclair—and you, too—was all that was good.”

  I smiled. “Well, he was right.”

  “He was.” Her small, round face crumpled in sorrow again. “About everything. You were, too. I should’ve listened.”

  Don’t beat yourself up, I started to say. Except: Hell. That was precisely what you were supposed to do here.

  “How come you waited to reach out to me?”

  “It took me a while to work up the nerve to ask for you. And I wasn’t sure what was— It’s just, when I got here, there seemed to be some confusion about who was in charge.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet. Well, I’ll end the suspense: it’s me.”

  “I figured. But I have to say, for Hell? This place isn’t so bad. They don’t have Mountain Dew or Doritos here, but I’m not being flayed alive over and over again, either. Mostly I’ve been exploring, but there’s so much I don’t— Y’know, I’ve only been here a little over a month. There are people here who’ve been here a thousand years or more who know lots.”

  “Yesssss . . . hmm.” There it was. A blinding new idea. “I want Jennifer Palmer right now.”

  And then she was there, pulled by my will in the act of handing someone a terrible Orange Julius. She took both of us in, set the drink on a nearby table, and said, “Some things you never get used to. It’s so weird to be in one place one moment and then somewhere else before you can blink.”

  Tell me about it. “Jennifer Palmer, this is Cindy Tinsman. Cindy, this is your buddy from Hell. She’ll take you around, introduce you, show you the ropes—pick your cliché.” This might be one of those “why didn’t I think of that?” ideas, except for once it would be my idea everyone was wishing they’d thought of. Ha!

  “Buddy,” Jennifer repeated, looking as though she was wondering if her ears had fallen off or something. I could almost read her mind: Did she really just say . . . ? “Buddy?”

  “Yep. It’s a new initiative.” Real new. “You’re the test case. Or patient zero. Whatever you want to call it.” This could work. Or blow up in my face. But neither of them were in Hell because they’d gone on a killing spree or were serial pedophiles. They were there because they’d made one huge, life-altering, death-causing mistake and thought they should be punished.

  “If test case and patient zero are my options, I’ll take test case.”

  I grinned at Jennifer. “Smart choice.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  “You’re not even going to believe who I saw in Hell today.”

  “Cindy Tinsman.”

  “Nope! It— Wait. You’re right.” Dammit. “How’d you know?”

  Sinclair had been working at the desk in the corner of our bedroom (one of three in a series: From the Desk of Sinclair; he had one in his office downstairs and a little one in the kitchen so he could play with Fur and Burr while he worked). God, Fur and Burr. The two most indulged dogs in the history of the domesticated canine. They adored me because all dogs did, but they loved Sinclair for himself, there was nothing supernatural about it. He baked them homemade dog biscuits, for crying out loud. And why was I thinking about the pampered pups right now?

  Sinclair had looked up from whatever it was he was concentrating on. “You don’t talk about Hell overmuch, at least not to me, so whomever you saw would be of interest to both of us, or you would never have brought it up. Given that we’ve had recent dealings with that willful child, it made sense you would see her in your new capacity as the . . .” I mentally groaned; here came another one. “. . . Mistress of Hell.”

  “Nope.” Sinclair (and occasionally Marc) kept trying out new titles for me. They were all terrible.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  TERRIBLE NICKNAMES FOR HELL’S NEW BOSS LADY

  Queen of the Damned. No. Anne Rice had that one pretty well covered.

  Chieftess of Demons. Barf.

  The Devourer. Not flattering. “Hey, look, here comes the Devourer! Hide the bacon.”

  The Loud One. Oh, just shut up, Marc. Shut up already. No.

  Princess of Darkness. Sounded like a bad porn. Or bad Dungeons & Dragons.

  Princess of the Power of the Air. Too long. And what did it even mean?

  The Accuser. That just makes me sound shrill.

  The Beast. That just makes me sound fat.

  God of This Age. Too self-important.

  Queen of the Bottomless Pit. Too depressing.

  Power of Darkness. Too Magic: The Gathering.

  Ruler of This World. Too . . . hmm. I’d think about that one.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Anyway, she was really nice about the whole decapitating thing. She even apologized.”

  Nothing. Sinclair’s back was to me and his head was bent over his work again. He’d been pretty quiet lately, even for him. Like most working women, I had to juggle a demanding spouse with a demanding job(s), and my man was feeling neglected. Tell you what, though, Cosmo never covered this.

  “So . . . looks like I’ve got the time problem figured. I’ve just got to make sure I’ve got a way to track Minnesota time when I’m there, so it doesn’t get away from me again, and my handy-dandy Hell watch is taking care of that for me.”

  “Very good.”

  “Soooo.” I toed off my shoes (Beverly Feldman ballet flats in pixie red) and killed a minute wiping them down and putting them away in the walk-in. But eventually I had to come out and resume my conversation with Sinclair’s shoulder blades. “What’d I miss?”

  “Oh, just the tedium of running your kingdom.”

  Kingdoms, plural, and I’ve noticed it’s only my kingdom when you’re pissed, I thought but didn’t say, then thought, Agh! Did he hear that?

  Apparently not. So, deliberately not listening or, worse, shutting me out. I resisted the urge to fidget. As an uncouth extrovert, my knee-jerk reaction to someone being quiet was to get louder. That was a terrible reaction to have to someone being quiet, because they got quieter. And thus I
got still louder. It was a perfect storm of argh.

  He put down his pen (he used paper! and pens! for notes! soooo old-fashioned, and also cute), twisted around in his chair, and looked right at me. He looked amazing as always: black wool trousers, black leather belt with a small shiny buckle, navy blue tailored button-down, black dress socks. Dark brown hair casually brushed back from his forehead, sleeves rolled to his elbows. This was Sinclair’s version of sweatpants and a South Park T-shirt.

  Umm, those forearms. I didn’t even know I had a thing for forearms before I met him.

  “I would like to go to Hell and speak with Lawrence.”

  I blinked. “Oh. Uh, just give me a message and I’ll tell him.”

  “I would like to go to Hell and speak with Lawrence.”

  Aaaand here we go. Well, I’d known it was coming. I was so dreading this conversation I actually wished for a new Big Bad to suddenly show up and try to kill us, just to get out of having it. When we were in mortal danger, Sinclair often forgot to be pissed at me.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?” Hmm. No beloved or my queen or darling or my own. Strictly business. If he called me Mrs. Sinclair I would lose my shit.

  “Because I’d rather you stayed here and took care of vampire business.”

  He stood. He went up and up. Normally I didn’t find his height intimidating. “What is going on?”

  “Nothing!” It was true. C’mon, Big Bad, where are you already? Come try to kill us already! “Look, Hell is my burden, okay? And do you really think it’s smart for the king and the queen to be in Hell at the same time?”

  “No,” he replied, “I think we should take turns.”

  And there it was. Yeah, I’ll bet you think we should take turns. When you’re there, Hell is yours. When I’m there, it’s ours. “The vampire kingdom is ours. Hell is mine.”

  “How long?”

  “What?”

  “How long have you mistrusted me?”

  “Mistrust is a strong word,” I managed. Jeez, where had he been? I’ve mistrusted him from pretty much the moment we met. It didn’t mean I didn’t love him. It meant he was sneaky. He knew this. I knew this. Normally it wasn’t a problem.