MaryJane Davidson: Undead and Unworthy

Jessica didn't say anything, just poured herself another cup of tea. I'd told her my plan the night before in a lame attempt to distract her from breaking up with Nick. I felt tremendously guilty that she'd picked me over him. Of course, I would have felt a lot worse if she'd gone the other way.

Maybe someday they could patch things up. I'd see if I could do something about that. He'd been hurt and scared and said things he didn't mean. I had tried to explain it to Jessica last night, but had no idea if she really heard me. Maybe... in time...

But maybe it was for the best if they never got back together. It would sure cut down on the vampire attacks he had to endure... the price of admission when you hung out with the people in Monster Mansion. And I truly didn't know how much more Nick could endure. He seemed like a rubber band, stretched almost – but not quite – to the breaking point.

I shook my head, then noticed Marc was shaking his head. “I spend one Goddamn week in a hotel and then this.” He was feeling as guilty as I was; he was convinced he could have done something for Antonia if he'd been here.

“Mathematically,” Tina began gently, “given the age and abilities of our opponents, we got off rather lightly. And Garrett made his own choice. I – ”

“That's enough,” I said coldly, and Tina shut up.

“When?” my husband asked, mildly enough. “I'll need to clear my schedule.”

“Tomorrow.”

“As you wish.”

“I'll come with, if you like,” Laura offered. She'd been agog all evening, listening to our tale of the awful events of the night earlier. “It's not trouble at all.”

I was glad she had missed it (yay, church youth group!), to be honest. No telling what the body count would have been if she'd lost her temper. Or where the chief's bullets might have gone if he'd known who had really killed dear old dad. Just the thought of it gave me the willies.

In fact, it was safe to say that her temper was hanging over my head like a friggin' broadsword. Someday I was going to have to really sit down and figure out just what the deal was with the devil's daughter.

But not today. Not even this month. I was just so fucking tired.

“I'd be glad to come,” my sister was continuing, eager to help. “I've got a Toys for Tots meeting, but it's no problem to postpone – ”

“No, I need you to stay here and hold down the fort. And Tina – Richard, Stephanie, and Jane need looking after. Move them here while we're out of town, if that helps. Or you can move out to the McMansion until we get back. It's just temporary, until we can figure out something more permanent.”

Tina nodded and jotted a note to herself on the notepad she always kept nearby. “As you wish, Majesty.”

“I'll keep BabyJon for you,” Laura volunteered.

I smiled at my sister and shook my head, then turned to my husband. “Actually, I'd like to bring him to the Cape with us, if you don't mind. I've been spending too much time fobbing him off on other people, which is no good. I'm the only mother he's got now.”

Sinclair tried to hide the wince (not a baby guy, my husband), but nodded. “As you like, Elizabeth. I do agree, we should probably get used to the idea of being” – he didn't quite gag on the word – 'parents'.

“A fine thing, my son being brought up by vampires,” the Ant said.

“I suppose you're coming, too.”

“Of course,” my dead stepmother said, amused.

“That reminds me,” I told my puzzled friends. “I figured it out. Why the Ant's here.”

“To find a cure for bad dye jobs?” Jessica joked.

“Not hardly. See, she lived for making me miserable, she got off on setting my dad against his only kid, she loved irritating me in a thousand small ways.”

“You make it sound as if that was my only purpose in life,” the Ant sniffed.

“It was.”

“What was?” Jessica asked.

I kept forgetting no one could hear her or see her but me. Lucky, lucky me. “Never mind. Point is, she's not done yet,” I finished. “Not near done. So she's not going anywhere. She can't.”

“Believe me, I've tried,” she said sourly.

“So we're stuck with her indefinitely.”

“That's right!” the Ant said triumphantly. “No more Mrs. Nice Guy!”

Exactly. Things were going to be very, very different from now on.

But the Ant didn't know me. Not the new me, the me that forced Fiends to their knees and broke necks and cured cancer. She was going to have her hands full.

For that matter, anyone who got in my way, who hurt my friends, who tried to stop me from making the world better, was going to have their hands full.

They didn't know this queen. Not like I did.

“You again.”

“Me again,” I agreed, plonking the six-​pack of Budweiser into my grandpa's lap. He let out a yelp and gave me a look like he'd like to burn me alive. I'm sure if he'd had a can of gasoline and a box of matches, he would have tried.

He slipped a can free, popped the top, took a greedy swig, then let out a satisfied belch. “Ahhhh. You're not entirely useless.”

“Aw, Grandpa. That gets me right here.”

He grunted and almost smiled – almost. “Where's the new guy? The Injun you married?”

“It's Native American, you old jerk.”

“Oh, fuck me and spare me that PC crap.”

I could see we weren't going to get anywhere unless I worked around to my topic of conversation a lot faster.

“To answer, he's looking after his business and junk like that.” Truth was, I had no interest in involving myself in Sinclair's business affairs. One, it would have bored me near to death. Two, he'd been making himself rich for decades. He sure didn't need any help from me.

I settled myself into the chair across from the bed. He was in his wheelchair (the one he didn't need) by the window. It had been full dark for half an hour.

“So what's on your brain, Betsy?”

“I distinctly remember you telling me on several occasions that I didn't have one,” I teased gently.

“Yeah, well, you never come over without a purpose. Introducing the new guy. Telling me about that twat and your dad when they died. So what do you want? There's a Sandford and Son marathon starting in twenty minutes.”

“How d'you do it?”

“Do what?” he said impatiently, then slurped up more beer.

“Kill people. And then not worry about it.” I was speaking with a world war veteran, a man awarded the Bronze Star. Fourth highest award in the armed forces. It was hanging on the wall above my head.

His platoon had run into some bad luck, had been in the wrong place at the wrong time... a not unusual occurrence in wartime, I was sure. Grandpa had grabbed his Lee Enfield sniper rifle, found scant cover, and picked off Germans one by one while his buddies were scrambling to get away. As sergeant, he had ordered them to get away.

He took four bullets: two in his left arm, one just above his right knee, and one had clipped off his left earlobe. Two of his men had dragged him away, as he protested bitterly that he was just fine, fine, Goddammit, let go, you jackasses, I've got work to do!

I had work to do, too.

Meanwhile, my grandpa had finished the beer (barf... words could not describe how much I hated the taste of beer) and was holding an unopened can in his left hand. “Kill people? Izzat what you said? And then not worry about it?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened, idiot?”

I shook my head. “It's a really long story, and I come off pretty bad in it.”

Grandpa shrugged, instantly losing interest in what brought me here, what had happened to make me ask that question. As Margaret Mitchell wrote about Scarlett O'Hara, he could not long endure any conversation that wasn't about him.