Undead and Unforgiven

  It was fair to say I’d never thought about the Revolution from the perspective of a mom who was fine with being a British subject and annoyed her kid wouldn’t get with the program. As kids, we’re fed the version “the king sucked, so we kicked him out, God bless ’merica!” and not the one that went “if we’d lost, the names Washington and Jefferson and Adams would be synonymous with Hitler and Goebbels.”

  “Listen, Mrs. Washington, history’s written by the winners. In this case: us. So your kid’s rebellion is generally considered pretty terrific. There are schools named after your son, and highways and cities. They named the capital after him, and a state. They carved his face into a mountain! You have bragging rights most moms can only dream of!”

  An affronted sniff was my only answer. If she held grudges this long, no wonder she was in Hell. One of those souls who, even if I told her she could go, would stay, would insist she was exactly where she was supposed to be, forever and ever, amen.

  I tried one more time: “You know he’s on all the money, right?”

  “I hated that portrait.”

  I had to stop; the grumpy Dame Washington was making me want to snort in the worst way. Luckily I spotted the sodom—Marc running out of the Lego room, and no wonder: Cathie was dismantling it as quickly as she’d put it together. The woman should have been an architect. Or a demolition engineer.

  “Marc, c’mere, I want to introduce you to somebody.” He trotted right over, smiling a greeting as Dame Washington gave him a regal nod. When I tried to nod like that, I looked like I was fighting a nap. Must be a generational thing. Or a Colonial American thing. “This is May Bell Washington; Tina asked her to introduce you to interesting people.”

  His friendly green eyes got big. “George Washington’s mother, hi!”

  “You know who this is?” How was that possible? She didn’t have a show on cable and wasn’t on social media, two vehicles that let Marc instantly recognize almost any celebrity in the world.

  “And it’s Mary Ball, Betsy. Jeesh. Get with the program.” To her: “There’s a monument and a hospital named after you. It’s so nice to meet you!”

  She cleared her throat and—whoa. Was that a blush on her wrinkly cheeks? “Foolish aggrandizing. And the pleasure is mine, Dr. Spangler. I thank you for not holding my son’s crimes against me.”

  “Crimes? Right, right, you were a loyalist . . . okay, back then, yeah. But don’t you see? You made him the man he is! Was. Where do you think he got that whole ‘lead by example’ thing? From you! Why do you think he called out Britain for their dick moves with the Stamp Act and the Townshend Acts?”

  This whole conversation is proof that I didn’t have to be here for any of it. Ugh, he’s still going on. What’d this Townshend guy ever do to him?

  “Who taught him to stick up for the little guy? You! You’re a huge reason why America’s been kicking ass since before there was an America.”

  Definitely a blush. I could see her revising her opinion on Marc in particular and sodomites in general. “Oh, well,” she managed, then giggled. Giggled! So very, very, very weird to see a female version of the guy on the one-dollar bill giggling with a gay zombie. “I could only do my best and God’s will, like any woman.”

  “What, you’re a Revolutionary War buff now?” I wasn’t feeling pissy because they were ignoring me. I wasn’t! I had honest curiosity about whether or not Marc was a Revolutionary War buff.

  “I minored in eighteenth-century American history,” was his absent reply as he extended an elbow for Dame Washington to clutch with her gnarled fingers. “Madam, I can’t wait to meet people you think are interesting.”

  She chortled in response and began to lead him away, which simultaneously relieved and irked me. “Okay, well, see you later!” I said loudly. “And we’ve established I don’t need to be present for this kind of stuff, right?”

  Dame Washington stopped dead (not really), turned, gifted me with a warm, slightly yellowed smile (were her teeth wooden, too?). “Thank you so much, Mrs. Sinclair, for allowing this.” She dipped her head in a respectful nod, the twenty-first-century version of a curtsy, I figured. “If I can assist any other committee members, or you, in any way, I hope you’ll call on me.”

  “Mrs. Sinclair! Oh, that’s wonderful!” Marc’s delighted shriek drowned out my muffled groan. “Oh, that’s worth any amount of tedium. I’m going to use that constantly. I’m buying her so much stuff with her name on it.”

  “No need!” I called loudly, to their rapidly retreating backs. Sinclair had paid off all Marc’s student loans, so the son of a bitch had actual disposable income he could piss away on stuff I didn’t want. It wasn’t an idle threat!

  “Engraved stationery is always a thoughtful and practical gift for a lady,” Dame Washington suggested, because my life wasn’t weird and stressful enough. “Or monogrammed handkerchiefs.”

  “No, really! I’m all set, guys. Got everything I need and then some.”

  “Engraved everything! Monogrammed everything!” Marc replied grandly as they went far, far away. Or so I hoped. “Towels, toilet paper, iPhone cases, luggage tags!”

  Engraved stationery and monogrammed toilet paper. Jesus wept. Or maybe that was only me.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  I did the Being Seen thing for a while, on Sinclair’s advice

  (“The denizens of Hell should know their new queen, though if any should be bold enough to attempt familiarities with your delectable self, I insist on the privilege of making them suffer for it.”

  “Aww, you’re so cute. You’re like an undead Fred Flintstone.”)

  and it wasn’t terrible. I strolled around with my hands clasped behind my back, trying to look unconcerned and, I dunno, regal or evil or regally evil and like someone whose delectable self was never to be messed with.

  Most of them were too shy or terrified to talk to me, or even meet my gaze, but I caught a lot of glances out of the corner of my eye, usually from people using the corners of their eyes. I ended up in one of Hell’s food courts, stepped up to the Orange Julius counter, and ordered a medium orange. (Anything in an Orange Julius that wasn’t orange or Julius wasn’t an Orange Julius. Strawberry Banana Julius just sounds dumb.)

  “Um . . . ma’am . . . you must know . . .” The girl behind the counter, who looked like a young lunch lady crossed with the wardrobe from Flashdance (leg warmers! baah-ha-ha!), made a vague gesture behind her at the big shiny Julius dispenser. “It’s not going to . . . I mean, it might look like what you ordered, but I wouldn’t drink it.”

  “It’ll work for me,” I said, and she nodded so hard I was afraid she’d brain herself on something. She turned, grabbed a cup and straw, fiddled with the machine, and ta-dah! She handed it to me with a shaking hand, and I took a sip. Excellent. A very good year. “What’s your name?”

  “Jennifer Palmer?” This while fiddling with her side ponytail. No one should bring attention to a side ponytail.

  “Well, thanks, Jennifer.”

  “Oh!” She was young—late teens, maybe—with bitten nails, a Frankie Says Relax T-shirt, acid-washed jeans, and of course a hairnet, required by all who worked the food courts. It wasn’t that Hell cared if hair got in the food. It’s that people detested wearing hairnets. “You’re—you’re welcome, ma’am?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Um.” She looked around, but suddenly every single person in the food court was busy looking busy and not so much as glancing at either of us. “Sure? I guess?”

  Ugh, I hated the “even though this is a declarative sentence I’m saying it like a question?” thing. But she was already a bit of a nervous wreck, so I let it pass. “Is this your punishment?”

  She blinked. “Yes.”

  “Working a food court for eternity.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How long’s
it been?” I could have conjured up a clipboard laden with all the pertinent info, but was curious to hear what she had to say. A clipboard could give me the facts, but not the person behind them.

  “Uh . . .” Lots of blinking now. I could almost read her mind: Where is she going with this? Oh fuck, am I in more trouble now? I tried to warn her about the Orange Julius! “Thirty-one years.”

  “If you didn’t have to be here, where would you go?”

  “I—” Another glance around, but nope. No help from anywhere. And I wasn’t budging. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, think about it.” I sucked up Julius and waited. I was as patient as a mannequin: unmoving, blank faced, and dressed in trendy clothes. Finally . . .

  “I guess I’d go home. Tell them I’m sorry, tell them the whole story. My folks are still alive, my sister, and he is, too.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “The fire was an accident, but they thought it was on purpose.” Definitely warming to her subject, no pun intended. The side ponytail bounced as she gestured. “I couldn’t tell anybody . . . I mean, Tammy died.” Bounce. “All because I wasn’t paying attention, y’know?” I didn’t, but nodded anyway. “They thought it was on purpose and I couldn’t— Someone went to prison for it. I could’ve said something. I didn’t. I was,” she summed up, shaking her head so the bouncing turned to swaying, “chickenshit.”

  “And not surprised to find yourself in Hell.”

  “Suicides go to Hell,” was the flat response. As if catching her mood, the ponytail went still. “So no. I wasn’t surprised.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why didn’t you know that?”

  “I could’ve gotten the info. I wanted to hear what you have to say.”

  “Oh.” She paused. Swallowed. Then, in a small voice, and with a smaller smile: “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” Aww. She was sweet, for an accidental murderous arsonist who watched an innocent man go to prison while never saying a word for fear of incriminating herself. And it wasn’t her fault she died on a terrible hair day. Oh. Wait. It was. Well, no one was perfect.

  “Hey, Betsy!” Ah, here came Marc the sodom— God, I wish I could get that out of my head. Damn you to Hell, Marya Bill Washington! Again! “Been looking for you.” He was trotting past the tables of the damned, the only one in the place who was smiling. “Okay, how cool was Mary Ball?”

  “Chums now, huh?”

  “She’s got sooo much dirt on people here!” He was so gleeful, he was practically rubbing his hands together. But not bored—and that was the main thing. “You wouldn’t believe— I’ll tell you later. Hey.” To Jennifer, who blinked back. “She introduced me to a whole . . .”

  My phone buzzed against my hip and I pulled it free, nodded at Marc to continue, saw I had a text from Sinclair.

  I miss you.

  I want you.

  Come.

  “. . . cut both their heads off and they still found him not guilty! Hey. Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” I gulped. My sluggish, undead blood was doing its best to travel south and that one word was all I could manage. “Nnk.”

  “What was that?”

  Oh, that would be me, swallowing an invisible lump conjured by instant horniness.

  Marc brightened. “Oooh, did Sinclair send you another sexy texty? He’s such a suave son of a bitch.” This in a tone of fond admiration.

  “First, never call it that again on pain of me kicking you in the shins until you cry. And yes. Hey!” I batted his hand away, but not before he got a quick peek at my phone. “Boundaries!”

  “Nobody does that imperious-alpha-male thing better,” Marc said, shaking his head. “Gotta give it to him, you lucky skank.”

  “That’s just it!” I cried. Marc had hit on one of my favorite things about the essence of Sinclair. “He’s not even trying to be sexy! He’s just sexy! It just happens! Don’t call me skank.”

  “I can’t believe you allow texts but not text terminology,” Marc grumbled. “Do you know how much of my time I waste spelling out ‘laughing out loud’?”

  “Do I care?” Texting back: On my way! I’d held out against texting as long as I could; it was laziness personified by way of technology, except in a bad way. But dammit, it was just so convenient. Especially here. But I still hated emojis and text gibberish (LOL, JK, STFU, ISHO, ES, EB, INSTBH,2 etc.) and I forbade them.

  “At least reconsider your hashtag decree—”

  “There will never be hashtags or Twitter in Hell!” I shrieked. I heard a muffled crack! and realized I’d tightened my grip on my phone a bit too hard. Dammit! Fourth one this month. Tina kept a box of brand-new phones at the mansion, and thank goodness. “Never, never, never!”

  Jennifer opened her mouth, but the thunder of a hundred chairs being shoved back while almost everyone galloped for the exits on either end of the food court drowned out whatever she was going to say.

  “Never,” I said again, trying to moderate my shrillness.

  “For what it’s worth, you just depressed the hell out of the gals who died in that bachelorette bus crash three days ago,” Marc said, nodding over my shoulder. I looked and, yep, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth even as people surged past us.

  “Hey, it’s Hell,” I snapped at them. “What’d you expect?” To Marc: “I’m going. Let’s gather up the gang.” I never left any of them in Hell when I wasn’t there. We were all too new to this. I didn’t think anybody would mess with them when I was out—assuming anyone here would even know I was or wasn’t in Hell—but wasn’t willing to risk their safety to find out. As often as Satan had appeared to me in the “real” world, I knew she’d probably had some sort of “back in ten minutes!” setup here. Unless she could be in two places at once. Which would be just like that annoying bitch.

  To Jennifer, now cowering behind the counter: “Good talk, thanks. Hope it works out for you.” She cocked her head, puzzled, but I was already leaving.

  Marc fell into step beside me as we headed past the Dairy Queen that was always out of everything chocolate, the Great Steak company that was always out of buns for the sandwiches and lemons for the lemonade, and the Panda Express entrees that always smelled wonderful but tasted like sautéed shit.

  “I think you’re overlooking all the people who would find hashtags kind of torturous.”

  “Yeah, like me. Come on, let’s hit the bricks.”

  “#whateveryousay.”

  “Cut it out.”

  “#notalldamned.”

  “Marc!” I yelled, and if anything, the stampede sped up. Hate to be on the other end of the mall when they got there.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  I was still figuring out the whole “now that you’re in charge of Hell you can teleport to and from there even though you were an ordinary human for most of your life” thing. (It sounds totally made up, right? Right.)

  But for whatever illogical reason, it was true. To focus my will, my subconscious obligingly produced Dorothy’s silver slippers from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.3 When I’m wearing them, I just think about Hell and I’m there. Or vice versa. (It sounds easy. It’s not.)

  But the ability was dependent on my mood and my intent. It had taken me five minutes to will myself into Hell for the meeting today, because I just wasn’t keen on going. But now I really wanted to go home. And I really wanted to fuck the king of the vampires.

  And like that: I was there. Even better: Sinclair was, too. He was better than there; his six-feet-many-inches frame was stretched out in the middle of our emperor bed, the dark sheets a deep contrast to his pale skin (he’d hated losing his farmer’s tan when he died). He had one hand behind his head, the other on his cock, and he beckoned me closer without moving, which was a wonderful tr
ick. (He might be hypnotizing me with his dick. If so, I genuinely can’t think of an objection.)

  “I’m back!” I cried unnecessarily. I was already starting to tug at my clothes, stupid clothes, stupid stupid stupid clothes, there should be a law, I would make a law, Sinclair should only be naked and I should make a law about stupid—

  “Wait!”

  Eh? Annoyed, I rounded on the voice. “Marc! Can’t you see we’d like some privacy?”

  “You teleported us in here with you, shithead!” Marc kept trying not to stare at Sinclair lolling nudely

  (nudely!)

  and failing. “Bad enough you’re the luckiest shoe addict on the continent, you have to flaunt your no-doubt epic sex life, too?”

  “I’m fond of you, Marc,” came Sinclair’s voice in a sort of rolling deep purr that made me want to bite him everywhere, “but I won’t share Elizabeth—”

  Marc was peeking at him through his fingers. “She’s not exactly my—”

  “—and she won’t share me. Run along, there’s a good fellow.”

  “I’d like to! But your skank wife is between me and the door!”

  “Not for long.” I took a big step and bounded onto the bed with Sinclair, hitting the mattress hard enough to jar his hand loose from his cock. That was fine, he could touch me instead. Screw raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens; a naked Sinclair was one of my favorite things.

  “Oh, Eric, really,” Tina said, sounding like a fond elderly spinster aunt. Which she was, come to think of it. It’s just, she was hot, also.

  “You’re still here, too? What the hell, you guys?” I bitched. “Go the fuck away, I mean it!”

  “You brought us here.”

  Tina took Marc’s hand and they walked to the door. “Never mind, Marc.”

  “Never mind? But—they—she—ugh—”

  “Do you want to watch season three of Sherlock again?”