MaryJane Davidson - Undead and Unwelcome

Perhaps it was time to call the local mental hospital with some new admits. “Uh, okay,” I said, slowly getting to my feet. BabyJon, unmoved by recent events, yawned against my neck. “Well, thanks for the—uh—snacks. I guess we’ll—”

“We’re not going to actually let them get away with this, are we?” A petite, dark-​haired woman with a severe buzz cut was standing on the fringe of our small group. She was dressed in black jeans and a black button-​down shirt, and it took me a minute to place her.

It was Cain—one of the werewolves who’d come to the mansion looking for Antonia earlier in the week.

“She gets Antonia killed, then brings some sort of ensorcelled infant—if that’s what it really is—and we’re just going to let her walk?”

“Cain.”

“Well, are we?” she cried, turning to face the man who towered over her. He, too, was dark and whip-​thin. He, too, looked weirded out but, even more than that, he seemed almost embarrassed. For her or for me, I had no idea. But I wasn’t going to bet the farm it was me.

“That’s for the Council to decide,” the quiet, dark-​haired man said. “Not us. And not here.”

“But she got Antonia killed! And she doesn’t even seem to care!”

And that was just about enough. “I didn’t get Antonia killed,” I said, and I could practically feel ears pricking up all over the room. “You did.”

Sinclair pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

“And then she—what?” Cain’s jaw sagged and she turned to fully face me. “What did you say to me?”

“What’s wrong? Should I get a megaphone? Do you not understand English?” Smiling, I beckoned her closer and, when she bent to hear, I said loudly, “I didn’t get Antonia killed. You did.”

Cain jerked away and rubbed her ear. A few more werewolves sidled over. Sinclair was still shaking his head and looking like the before picture of a sinus headache commercial.

“I am so sick of this bullshit,” I said, knowing my voice was carrying, knowing everyone in the room could hear me, and not much caring. “I guess it hasn’t occurred to any of you to ask yourselves what the hell Antonia was doing living with vampires in the first place. Oh, hell no! After all, it’s much more convenient to blame us than face the fact that she couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

“And now,” Sinclair sighed, “we fight.”

“Here,” I said, thrusting BabyJon toward Sara, who scooped him up and backed off a couple of steps. BabyJon let out a pissed-​off yowl, ignoring Sara’s attempts to soothe him.

“You can’t pass the buck that easily,” Cain retorted. “You were the leader; she was your responsibility.”

“She was a grown woman, you nitwit! You’re making it sound like she was my kindergarten student.”

“You’re still passing the buck,” someone else said, a werewolf I hadn’t met.

“And you’re all conveniently overlooking the fact that not only did you practically drive her to my front door, I didn’t see any of you assholes ever come to visit.”

“She was her own person,” that same werewolf said.

“Well, which is it, dipshit? Either she was a grown woman who could take care of herself, or she needed me to shelter and protect her. You can’t have it both ways.”

“We’re getting a bit far afield,” Sinclair began, but I bulldozed right over him.

“She didn’t get a single phone call the entire time she lived with us. The only time anyone bothered to show up was after she missed her weekly military check-​in, whatever it was. When your info pipeline into the vampires suddenly got cut off, then you showed up.”

A furious gabble of voices rose, and rose, and I had to shout to be heard over the din. “Not to mention, not to mention, you guys clearly didn’t want much to do with her while she was alive. So all this postmortem concern is a pile of crap. You guys look stupid trying to come off all morally outraged when it was your fault she was living in my house in the first place.”

The babble of voices got louder, but I was able to pick out one comment from the din: “The bottom line is that she died in your service, so it’s your responsibility.”

“If they’re even telling the truth about how she died,” someone else said. “How can we ever know? She and her mate don’t have a scent. They can make up any story they like and we’d never know the difference.”

“Oh, really? Okay. Here’s a story, fuck-​o. Once upon a time, there was a werewolf who could predict the future who lived on Cape Cod. And all her supposed friends and family went out of their way to avoid her because she wasn’t exactly Miss Congeniality.” I ought to know; I used to be one. “And one day she moved away and never came back, and nobody in her Pack gave a rat’s ass. The end.”

More babbling. The din rose and rose. Shouts. Threats. Michael trying to get everyone to calm down. Sinclair rubbing the bridge of his nose. Sara looking like an increasingly nervous tennis match observer. BabyJon crying.

It was stupid, really. Stupid to forget how fast they were. Stupid to pick a fight in a room full of werewolves. I heard the crash of a chair splintering, and turned just in time to get stabbed in the heart with a chair leg.

That was pretty much when the lights went out.

Dude,

I swear my intentions were good. But I vastly overestimated Laura’s state of mind and underestimated the rapidity with which things could deteriorate. And when Tina started having trouble sending and receiving e-​mails, I honestly didn’t make the connection until it was too late.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

More Satanists showed up and, instead of hiding from them or being embarrassed by them, Laura started briskly giving them orders. She spent a lot of time on the web finding charitable organizations where she could send the devil worshippers, and soon there were Satanists all over the metro area, cheerfully raising money for the homeless or participating in Meals on Wheels.

I admit, dude, I was proud of myself. I didn’t go into medicine for the money, obviously, so helping people always put me in a good mood. And Laura, for all her advantages, needed me as much as any patient. It’s just too damn bad I was too busy patting myself on the back to notice what was really going on.

Tina came and went, always on her own schedule, and I knew better than to ask her what she was up to. Mostly because it was none of my business, but also because she was as closed-​mouthed about her work as I was about mine.

There had been a bad crack-​up on I-35—no fatalities, thank God—so I didn’t get home until about 2:30 A.M. I headed straight for the kitchen (I had finally gone grocery shopping, so there was actual food in the fridge), where I found Tina sitting at the counter with her laptop, muttering to herself.

“Hey.”

“Good morning,” she said, not looking up.

“Everything okay?”

“Mmmm.” Then, thoughtfully, “You had a busy night, I see.”

Ah. Right. I had found it prudent to change out of my scrubs the moment I got home—or, even better, before I left the hospital. It didn’t matter if the blood on me was ten minutes old or ten hours. They could always smell it.

“Car crash.”

“Mmmm.”

I set about making myself a tuna sandwich while Tina pecked away at her laptop. She seemed a little off—annoyed, maybe, or distracted.

“Everything okay?”

“Hmmm?” She looked around as if noticing me for the first time. “Oh. Yes, everything’s fine. I’m getting a poor wireless signal. My e-​mails to His Majesty keep bouncing.”

“So call.”