Undead and Unforgiven

  “God, it’s like living with tiny twin Batmans.”

  “Yes. Well. No one said being an honorary aunt would be easy.” Jessica had picked up Thing One and I’d grabbed Thing Two, and now she turned to face me head-on. “We have to talk.”

  Shit.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-THREE

  I saw at once Marc and Tina knew what was up, because they sort of swooped in, grabbed babies and puppies, and swooped out, bound for parts unknown. I looked at my closest, dearest friend and raised my eyebrows.

  “Like that, is it?”

  “Like what?” Dick had just walked into the kitchen, home from work. He’d stopped long enough to lock his gun in one of the safes (his weird babies had forced extensive babyproofing pretty much immediately), but hadn’t changed clothes: gray slacks, white dress shirt with a brown and blue tie, chocolate-colored jacket tailored to accommodate his swimmer’s shoulders and nine-millimeter Glock. His hair—short, blond, military cut—was mussed (which was amazing, given the lack of length), and his blue eyes were slightly less exhausted than usual. He gave Jessica a kiss and settled on the stool beside her.

  “Do people at the Cop Shop know we’ve got reporters sniffing around?” I asked, honestly curious.

  “First of all, we prefer ‘Pig Paddy.’ Second,” he continued, ignoring my gasp of horror (I had great respect for the police and would no sooner refer to the good people at 367 Grove Street as pigs as I’d pair flip-flops with a formal), “a couple of the guys asked me about it but I blew it off. None of the suits were worried enough about it to want to see me.” Yet was unspoken. “And I’m glad to keep doing that until Tina and Sinclair figure out how to thwart the Antichrist—”

  “And Betsy, too,” Jessica said with touching, hilarious loyalty.

  “You’re adorable!” I cried. No one in the history of human events had better friends than I did. Especially when you considered what I put them through, consciously and otherwise. Borrowing clothes without asking didn’t begin to cover it.

  “—but it’s a stopgap measure at best. If this outing-the-vamps thing gains any momentum, and Marc’s pretty sure it will, we’ll need a new plan. I’ll have to explain that, yep, I live with vampires, they’re definitely real—oh, did I not mention that?”

  “You’re right,” I said, nodding.

  “Which, uh.” Dick coughed into his fist and darted a glance at Jessica. “Brings us to this.”

  “You’re moving out.”

  “Wait, hear us out! It’s not that we don’t— Yes. That’s the plan.”

  “As it should be. No, I’m serious.” I rushed ahead in the face of their astonished expressions. “You’re a family now; it’s not just about the two of you.”

  “We’re all a family. Everyone here.” Jessica reached out blindly, found Dick’s hand, squeezed. He squeezed back. “Better than any family I had growing up.”

  “Yes, but now you’ve got your weird babies to think about. It was one thing when there wasn’t any media scrutiny. If the Big Bad of the week showed up here, he’d have to get past multiple vampires, a zombie, the occasional visiting werewolf, puppies that wouldn’t hesitate to pee on them, and an armed cop before he’d even see the babies. But who knows what’ll happen now? The reporters will be back. The looky-loos will follow. Heck, Marc chased a few of them away already today. We’ll have to lock it down, deny everything, maybe even disappear a few people, God forbid, or . . .” I trailed off.

  “Or?” Dick prompted.

  I shook off my thought; now wasn’t the time. “Or not. But either way, too many unknown varieties, y’know?”

  “Variables. Yes.” Jessica shifted on her stool. “I have to say, I thought you’d take this a little harder.” She glanced at the Barnes and Noble bag she’d brought in with her, but made no move to touch it. “I thought there’d be threats and promises and at least one tantrum, and maybe bribery.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Jess. I don’t want you to go. I want you and Dick and your weird babies to stay here forever. But like I said—and like you two know: it’s not just about you. It’s barely about me.” Wow, that felt weird to say. “You’ve got to put your as-yet-unnamed babies ahead of everything else.”

  “That’s very—”

  “It’s just I love you,” I continued, while Dick made a funny coughing noise, the way tough guys do when they don’t want you to know they’re tearing up. “It’ll be hard to see you go. We’ve been on-and-off roomies since we were . . . what, nineteen?”

  “Twenty,” she said, smiling. “Since the U bounced you just before the end of sophomore year.”

  “They really should warn people when they register: if you set so much as one measly accidental fire while drunk, suddenly it’s an expellable offense.”

  “The early signs of living with you being a terrible idea were all there,” she replied, grinning. “But, alas, ignored.”

  Undeterred, I went on. “I love living with you. And it’s handy having a cop around, I won’t lie. I shouldn’t have complained all those times about having all these roommates. I’m sorry I did that.”

  “You never meant it. We always knew that.”

  “Yeah, I gathered, what with how none of you ever left despite the power of my bitchery. I don’t want you guys to go, but the weird babies come first.”

  “You’ve got to stop calling them that.”

  “The minute they stop being weird, I will.”

  I meant it. All of it: the smart thing would be for them to get gone, and I’d be a terrible, selfish friend to try to prevent that. Frankly I was surprised it had taken them this long to figure it out.

  But I couldn’t help thinking about all her other weird babies, the kindergartners and the high schoolers and all the twins in between in all their delightful strange iterations (the Antichrist’s word of the week was taunting; mine was iterations). They were never surprised to find themselves in the mansion kitchen. They always knew where everything was. They always knew who we were. They always had thorough, intimate knowledge of the mansion and everything and everyone in it.

  So I didn’t think Jessica and Dick and the babies would be gone very long. Either something or someone would drive them back or eventually they’d feel safe enough to return on their own. Please, God, let it be the latter.

  “Are you going to hire help?” I asked. “I mean, what about when your weird babies do that weird thing your weird babies do?”

  Jess looked at me for a long moment without speaking, and Dick wouldn’t look at me at all. She opened her mouth to reply, when I figured it out. “You think they won’t do that if they don’t live here. With me.”

  Identical shrugs. “It’s just a theory.”

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I couldn’t blame Jess and Dick for craving normality, but I sort of loved the weird thing their weird babies did. However: not my call.

  “Marc’s promised to come by and help us while pretending he’s not in it to experiment on our children.”

  “Aww. That’s sweet. Do you have a place picked out?” Again they wouldn’t look at me. “Oh. You do. You’ve had this in mind for a while. It’s okay, I’m not mad.” Hurt, crushed, despairing, but not mad. “I was wondering that it even took you this long to decide. But it didn’t take you this long.”

  “It’s just a little house in Stillwater. Not even half an hour from here.”

  Usually when a multimillionaire says something faux deprecating about his place, like “aw, it’s just a cottage—a glorified shack, really,” after the urge to kick him in the shins passes, you find out the glorified shack is a mansion on Woolsey Lane on Lake Minnetonka. But Jess was never a fan of flaunting the millions her parents had left her. The money represented the worst of childhoods, with a sexually abusive father and an enabling mother.

  Until she’d bought the mansion for all of us to liv
e in, she and I shared a two-bedroom condo in Apple Valley. In college she lived in a studio apartment that was just a little bigger than her mother’s walk-in closet. She was one of those people who never buy a luxury car, because she didn’t care about how her car looked, but how it ran. If it got her from point A to point B with a minimum of fuss, she didn’t care if it was a covered wagon.

  “White Pine Way,” Jess continued, “four bedrooms.” Which made sense; the babies needed a room and she needed an office. I knew the area a bit. White Pine Way meant new construction, not quite as big or pricey as a McMansion. Compared to the mansion she was departing, it was a shack.

  “When—”

  “End of the week.”

  “Oh.” Too soon! I don’t like change! Can’t we ditch the babies and go get pedis? Remember when our biggest problem was our neighbor borrowing kitchen stuff and never bringing it back? “Well, that’s great. Need help moving?”

  “We’ve got it covered.” That was Marc, who had doubtless listened at the door and, when he didn’t hear shrieking or the clang! of me braining Dick with a frying pan, had come back in, with Tina and Sinclair behind them. Sinclair’s brow was adorably furrowed and he was lugging an infant; Tina had apparently forced it on him, as she had her laptop in one hand and her phone in the other.

  “Tina explained.”

  “Wait, Tina and Marc and you guys all knew before they—” I forced myself to stop. “Never mind, not about me, totally fine.” If I kept saying it wasn’t about me, I might eventually believe it.

  “I am sorry you feel you must leave us, dear,” he told her, then turned to Dick. “But we quite understand your reasons.”

  “Thanks,” Dick said, returning Sinclair’s handshake. “We’re sorry to go, but under the circumstances . . .”

  “Of course.”

  Are you bearing this, my own?

  I don’t like change, Sinclair!

  I know it well.

  “It’s not completely terrible,” Jessica said, smiling and handing me the B&N bag. Because a book totally makes up for my best friend having to leave me because her family was in danger. Blech.

  “Thanks,” I said automatically. “I’ll read it right away, maybe.”

  “Open it, dumbass.” This said in the kindest of tones, so I obeyed. To my surprise, there were no books. The edges I’d felt were shoe boxes. Two of them! “Two of them!”

  “It could be a cruel trick,” Marc offered. “The boxes could be full of travel guides.”

  “Don’t you joke about that ever.” I pulled both boxes out, plopped them on the counter, flipped the top off one, yowled in delight. “Manolo Blahnik ‘Tayler’ d’Orsay pumps! I wanted these so bad, but I couldn’t decide between black and . . .” On a hunch I flipped the other lid. “Bone!” I was beyond yowling. All I could manage was thrilled gurgling. At nearly eight hundred bucks a pop, this was a pretty decent reverse housewarming gift. “Oh my God, thank you! Tina, I’m sorry! But cripes, bone and black!”

  “Totally understandable, dread queen, think nothing of it.” This with an admirably straight face.

  “This doesn’t mean I’m not sad about you leaving,” I explained, and I was doing so from the floor, because I’d promptly sat and started releasing the shoes from their prisons of box and tissue paper, while also wrenching my socks off so I could yank the new shoes on my willing feet. If feet could feel emotions and be happy, mine were. “Because I am. But this makes it slightly—slightly—easier to— Damn, how great do these look?” I’d slipped them on and now stretched out my legs to admire them.

  “I don’t get it,” Dick said. “They’re black high heels. I’m glad you’re glad, but they’re black high heels. There’s a million of them. You’ve got at least five pairs yourself.”

  “Oh, Dick, you adorable moron, if I have to explain then you’ll never get it. And they’re black and bone high heels.” How to tell him they’d always look great, they’d go with almost everything, that I’d wear them all the time for that reason alone, but even better, I’d wear them because every time I saw them I would remember how much my friend loved me.

  “That makes sense.”

  “Didn’t realize that was out loud.” I’d clambered back to my feet with a helpful yank from Marc. “Maybe if you guys get some peace and quiet in the new place you’ll be able to think up names for the babies.”

  “We have. Almost forgot to mention it.” Dick retrieved his son/daughter from a relieved-looking Sinclair. “Jess is filing the paperwork this week.”

  “Well?” What would it be? They’d ignored my helpful suggestions (Salt and Pepper, Pepsi and Coke, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Batman and Robin, Frick and Frack, Polar and Bipolar . . .) and swore they’d come to a decision soon.

  “Oh, sorry.” Dick had been smelling his baby’s head, and who could blame him? When they weren’t pooping, they smelled terrific (the same could be said of all of us in the mansion). “It’s Elizabeth and Eric.”

  “That’s nice.” Ugh. At least it wasn’t Maeve and Mable. Or Tommy and Teeny. Or James and Jenny.

  “Not even you’re this dim,” Marc said. “Are you?”

  “Hey, I’ve been given a buttload to process in less than a week, so why don’t you— Oh.” They named their weird babies after me! (And Sinclair.) “Ohhhhh.”

  “An honor,” Sinclair said, smiling. “Truly. Thank you.”

  “Don’t cry,” Dick warned me. “I always cry when you do. And you cry a lot: when the Antichrist betrayed you, when Macy’s didn’t have anything ‘cute’ in your shoe size that time, when Marc killed himself, when we ran out of ice . . . I’ve bawled more in the last year than in the last ten.”

  “Shut up! ’Mnot crying,” I sniffled. “Allergies.” That ought to fool him. “And—and I’m honored, too.” I leaned over and hugged Jessica. I didn’t even mind the spit-up on her shoulder.

  “Who else would we name them after?” she replied, squeezing back. “Dick and I never would have met if you hadn’t become a vampire, and you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t married Sinclair.”

  “Now that I think about it, yeah! Who else? Why’d it take you so long? It’s brilliant and it makes perfect sense.”

  Marc shook his head over Tina’s laughter. “I swear, your ego is made of Silly Putty. You have setbacks, but you always bounce back.”

  As a philosophy, it left a bit to be desired. But as a go-to attitude, it suited me pretty well. Betsy the Vampire Queen, Ruler of Hell and the Undead, with the footgear of a fashion goddess and an ego of Silly Putty.

  Nah. Needed work.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “There’s a werewolf on the phone for you.” Marc was holding the phone out to me and literally dancing in place. “He sounds gorgeous!”

  I, lounging in the TV parlor (second floor, almost directly above the Peach Parlor), was unimpressed. “Any particular werewolf, or just a random werewolf?”

  “Michael Wyndham.”

  Ah. The big boss. I trudged to the phone, about as thrilled to have this conversation as I was to have the Sex Talk with my mom when I was in fifth grade. (“Wait, he puts his what where? What is wrong with you? What’s wrong with every adult everywhere?”) Tell Sinclair, I mouthed at Marc, then remembered I had a telepathic link. Never mind.

  “Hi, Michael.”

  “Betsy.” I knew that warm, deep voice. Michael Wyndham, Pack leader. “I’ve been watching some fascinating YouTube videos lately. And press coverage.”

  “Nothing better to do on Cape Cod in wintertime, huh?”

  Oh, dear. Elizabeth, it would be lovely to keep the Wyndham werewolves on our side.

  Oh, please. He likes when I give him shit.

  I know how he feels.

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious. Anything you think I should know?”

  “It’s family business. I
’ll tell you if you really want me to. But it’s a long story and I come off like a clueless asshat.”

  A muffled laugh. “I’d be grateful if you would. I suspect you’re doing what you’re best at: being too hard on yourself.”

  Spotting knockoffs at twenty paces was what I was best at, but I appreciated the sentiment. Man, if I hadn’t met Sinclair first . . . Michael had the looks to go with the voice. And the voice was great. Like, podcast great. Guy sounded like verbal velvet. And he had golden eyes. Golden! Eyes!

  “Okay, here it is. My sister, the Antichrist, is super pissed at me for not helping her prove to the world that the Christian God, and Hell, exists, thus (she expects) inspiring all non-Christians to instantly convert. So to get back at me she’s trying to expose vampires to the world.”

  Silence, broken by, “That was a remarkably short story, actually. Er, do you require our assistance?”

  Careful.

  Duh. He’s not offering to help, just wondering if we want it. It’ll help him decide how much of a mess we’re in out here. What he really wants to know is how this affects his Pack: If vampires are outed, can werewolves be far behind? Will we protect them, keep quiet about their existence? Or out them to get the pressure off?

  They’ve already been through this with the Undersea Folk; it’s understandable that they’re wary about another world-shaking hidden species revelation.

  Yeah, no shit.

  Tell him he and his are welcome to visit, as always, but we require no assistance at this time.

  Oooh, tricky. “Everything’s totes fine here; we don’t care if you come or not.” Playing it cooool.

  “We’re fine, Michael.” I studied my nails. Sounding unconcerned was easier for me if I looked unconcerned, even if the other guy couldn’t see me. “Don’t get me wrong, you guys are welcome anytime; I’d love to see what Jeannie’s up to.” Michael’s mate was human and, like Tallahassee in Zombieland, set the standard for “not to be fucked with.” She’d also helped me pick out my wedding gown a couple of years ago, and her children were terrifying in a wonderful way. “And your awesome, scary children, too.”