MaryJane Davidson: Undead and Unworthy

Bored, I crossed the carpet in five steps, climbed up on Sinclair's desk, and kissed him. My left knee dislodged the phone, which hit the floor with a muffled thump and instantly started making that annoying eee-​eee-​eee sound. My right skidded on a fax Sinclair had gotten from some bank.

Surprised, but always up for a nooner (or whatever vampires called sex at 7:30 at night), my husband kissed me back with enthusiasm. Meanwhile, due to the aforementioned knee-​skidding, I slammed into him so hard, his chair hit the wall with enough force to put a crack in the wallpaper. More work for the handyman.

He yanked, and my (cashmere! argh) sweater tore down the middle. He shoved, and my skirt (Ann Taylor) went up. He pulled, and my panties (Target) went who knew where? And I was pretty busy tugging and pulling at his suit (try as I might, I could not get the king of the vampires to not wear a suit), so the cloth was flying.

He did that sweep-​the-​top-​of-​the-​desk thing you see in movies and plopped me on my back. He reached down, and I said, “Not the shoes!” so he left them alone (although I noticed the eye roll and made a mental note to bitch about it later).

He tugged, pulled, and entered. It hurt a little, because normally I needed more than sixteen seconds of foreplay, but it was also pretty fucking great (literally!).

I wrapped my legs around his waist, so I could admire my sequined leopard-​print pumps (don't even ask me what they cost). Then I grinned up at him, I couldn't help it, and he smiled back, his dark eyes narrow with lust. It was so awesome to be a newlywed. And I was almost done with my thank-​you notes!

I let my head fall back, enjoying the feel of him, the smell of him, his hands on my waist, his dick filling me up, his mouth on my neck, kissing, licking, then biting.

Then my dead stepmother said, “This is all your fault, Betsy, and I'm not going anywhere until you fix it.”

To which I replied, “Aaaaah! Aaaaah! AAAAAAH-​HHHHHH! ”

Sinclair jerked like I'd turned into sunshine and spoke for the first time since I swept into his office. “Elizabeth, what's wrong? Am I hurting you?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!”

From my vantage point, my dead stepmother was upside down, which somehow made it all the more terrible, because, contrary to popular belief, you can't turn a frown upside down.

“You can fuss all you want, but you've got responsibilities, and don't think I don't know it.” She shook her head at me, and in death, as in life, her overly coiffed pineapple-​blond hair didn't move. She was wearing a fuchsia skirt, a low-​cut sky blue blouse, black nylons, and fuchsia pumps. Also, too much makeup. It practically hurt to look at her. “So you better get to work.”

“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!”

Sinclair pulled out and started frantically feeling me. “Where are you hurt?”

“The Ant! The Ant!”

“You – what?”

Before I could elaborate (and where to begin?), I heard thundering footsteps, and then Marc slammed into the closed office door. His scent was unmistakable – antiseptic and dried blood.

I heard him back off and grab for the doorknob, and then he was standing in the doorway. “Betsy, are you – oh my God!” He went red so fast I was afraid he was going to have a stroke. “I'm sorry, jeez, I thought that was a bad 'aaaaahhhh,' not a sex 'aaaaahhh.' ”

More footsteps, and then my best friend, Jessica, was saying, “What's wrong? Is she okay?” She was so skinny and short, I couldn't see her behind Marc.

“The Ant is here!” I yowled, as Sinclair assembled the rags of his suit, picked me up off the desk, and shoved me behind him. I don't know why he bothered; Marc was gay and a doctor, and so couldn't care less if I was mostly naked. And Jessica had seen me naked about a million times. “Here, right now!”

“Your stepmother's in this room?” I still couldn't see her, but Jessica's tone managed to convey the sheer horror I felt at the prospect of being haunted by the Ant.

“Where else would I be?” the Ant, the late Antonia Taylor, said reasonably. She was tapping her Paylessclad foot and nibbling her lower lip. “What I'd like to know is, where's your father?”

“Yeah, that's all this scene is missing,” I fumed. “If only my dead dad were here, too.”

After Marc decided a Valium drip probably wouldn't work on a vampire, he brought me a stiff drink instead. Could he even tap a vein? I was over a year dead, after all. Would an IV take? Someday I was going to have to sit down and figure all this shit out. Someday when I wasn't plagued by ghosts, serial killers, wedding planning, rogue werewolves, mysterious vampires bursting in on me, and diaper changing.

It was sweet of Marc to bring me a gin and tonic (which I loathed, but he didn't know that), but I was so rattled I drank it off in one gulp, and it could have been paint thinner, for all I knew.

“Is she still here?” he whispered.

“Of course I'm still here,” my dead stepmother snapped. “I told you, I'm not going anywhere.”

“I'm the only one who can hear you,” I shrilled, “so just shut up!”

“Bring her another drink,” Sinclair muttered. We were still in his office, but Jessica had kindly brought robes to cover our shredded clothes. “Bring her three.”

“I don't need booze, I need to get rid of you know what.”

“Very funny,” the Ant grumped.

She and my father had been killed in a gruesome, stupid car accident a couple of months ago. Where she had been since her death, and why she had shown up now, I didn't know. There were so many things about being the vampire queen I didn't know! And I didn't want to know.

But I was going to have to find out, because the ghosts never, ever went away, until I solved their little problems for them.

And where was my dead dad, anyway? I sighed. Nonconfrontational in life as well as in death.

“What do you want?”

“I told you. To fix this.”

“Fix what?”

“You know.”

“This is so weird,” Marc murmured to Jessica, forgetting, as usual, about superior vamp hearing. “She's having a conversation with the chair.”

“She is not. Quiet so I can hear.”

“I don't know,” I said to the chair – uh, the Ant. “I really, really don't. Please tell me.”

“Stop playing games.”

“I'm not!” I almost screamed. Then I felt Sinclair's soothing hands on my shoulders and sagged into him. Like our honeymoon hadn't been stressful enough, what with all the dead kids and Jessica and her boyfriend crashing it and all. This was a hundred times worse.

“If you could just – ” I began, when the office door crashed open, nearly smashing into Marc, who yelped and jumped aside.

A bloody, stinking horror was framed in the doorway, then darted right at me like a goblin in a fairy tale. Since I was a tad keyed up from the Ant popping in, my reflexes were in excellent shape. I slugged the thing – it was a man, a big, bearish, shambling man – so hard I knocked him halfway across the office. He hit the carpet so hard, buttons popped off his shirt, which looked about ready for the ragbag anyway.

He was on his feet in a flash and looked wildly from Sinclair to me and back again. And he was – there was something familiar about him. Something I couldn't put my finger on.

Sinclair and I started toward him in unison, and he backed up, pivoted, and dived out the second story window.

“What the blue hell – ?” I began.