MaryJane Davidson - Undead and Unwelcome

“I have.”

“Oh. You don’t think anything’s wrong, do you?”

“I’m sure they’re fine.”

I believed her. But I also knew what was bugging her. Tina lived for Betsy and Sinclair, the way most people lived for racing cars or marathons. When she couldn’t keep in touch, she got antsy. Not unlike a drug addict going through withdrawal, to be perfectly blunt.

“Betsy answered my e-​mail,” I volunteered. It was a typical Betsy missive: bitchy and shrill. She really hated e-​mail acronyms. The woman should really catch up to this century’s lingo. “I’m sure she’s already won over the werewolves and they’re somewhere partying like it’s 1999.”

Tina slapped the laptop closed and smiled at me. “I’m sure you’re right. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go out.”

To hunt. And feed. She was too polite to say so, of course. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand in her way. A grumpy vampire is a homicidal vampire. Hungry ones were even worse.

“Heck,” I called after her, “they’ve probably declared it National Betsy Day out on Cape Cod. You know she can win over just about anybody.”

Yes, dude, I know. In retrospect that was beyond ignorant. But how was I supposed to know they were going to kill her?

I opened my eyes and saw a ring of tense faces above me. The first few times this had happened to me I’d been badly startled, but now I was getting used to being killed and then brought back to life.

“Ow,” I commented, sitting up. There was a sizeable hole in my blouse and suit jacket. Not to mention an unconscious werewolf three feet away. And BabyJon was still howling. “You’d better give him to me.”

Wide-​eyed, Sara knelt beside me and obliged. BabyJon hushed at once, giving me a chance to take a good look around.

“Oh, man,” I said, eyeing the werewolf who, I assumed, had driven a chair leg into my heart. “Sinclair, what did you do to him?”

“I only hit him once,” my husband replied in that faux-​casual tone that didn’t fool me one bit.

“Where’d everybody go?”

Aside from Sara, Sinclair, Jeannie, Michael, BabyJon, and Derik, the room was empty. Oh, and let’s not forget the werewolf who killed me.

“Michael cleared the room after you were attacked. Ah—it’s none of my business,” Sara continued, “but why aren’t you a pile of dust?”

“It’s a queen of the undead thing,” I said, trying to get my feet under me so I could stand. Sinclair gripped one of my arms, Michael the other, and they hauled me up. I stared down at my ruined suit and sighed.

“I must apologize on the Pack’s behalf,” Michael said stiffly. He appeared calm, but I had the distinct impression he was mortified.

And Jeannie was pissed. “There was no excuse for that. At all.” She turned to Sinclair. “You should have torn his damned head off.”

“Maybe next time,” my husband replied.

“Again, I apologize.” Michael nodded at the still-​snoring werewolf. “He will be dealt with; you have my word.”

“No, don’t.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Just forget it.”

“Elizabeth,” my husband began warningly.

“Let’s not make things any worse than they already are. Look! No harm, no foul. I’m fine. He can buy me a new suit and we’ll call it even.”

“Unacceptable,” Sinclair said flatly and, wonder of wonders, Michael was nodding in agreement. Finally, they had a goal in common: ignoring my express wishes.

But for a change I had the chance to be the better man—so to speak—and moved to take advantage of it. Maybe I was beginning to think more politically in my old age. “I mean it, you guys. Let it go. It was a bad situation for all of us. It’s not like I didn’t provoke him. Come on, let’s forget about it and move on. This Council thing—when are we supposed to talk to them?”

“Tomorrow,” Michael said, giving me a look I’d never seen on his face before. Grudging admiration? Disbelief in my sanity? Maybe he just had to use the bathroom. “Midnight.”

Ah, yes. Midnight. Not too big of a cliché. But I kept that to myself—I’d shot my mouth off enough for one night.

“So, we’ll be there. But let’s call it a night for now. I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve had about all the excitement I can take for one day. Night. Whatever.”

Sara laughed; she was the only one who did. But at least the others seemed to tacitly agree, because they fell back and let Sinclair, BabyJon, and me get back to our suite.

“Are you okay?” I muttered out of the side of my mouth, patting BabyJon on the rump. Hoo! The boy needed a diaper change in the worst way.

“I am deeply, deeply regretting not putting my fist through your attacker’s skull,” Sinclair replied neutrally.

“Don’t worry. There’s always tomorrow.”

Sinclair snorted, but seemed to lighten up. That was a good, good thing. I’m sure the werewolves were all badass and everything, but none of them had a thing on my husband, who wasn’t only a) the king of the vampires and b) old and wily, but c) wouldn’t tolerate people messing with me.

If they hadn’t learned that after tonight, there was no hope for them, and no hope for reconciliation. And then what?

War, maybe. A vampire/werewolf war.

Swell.

My king,

Things here are as well as can be expected. I have reviewed the quarterly report from your holdings in Los Angeles and it seems the new security system for the company’s web server is doing the job.

Laura seems to be entertaining quite a bit in your absence; it seems there are always strangers in the house. Neither Marc nor Laura has said anything to me about them, so I am respecting their privacy and assuming they are trying to fill the void left by the absence of you and the queen.

I trust this finds you and Her Majesty well. If you require anything of me, do not hesitate to contact me at once. In the meantime, I have FedExed copies of the contracts for your most recently acquired properties. Please review them at your leisure, sign them if they are satisfactory, and return them to me. I will then take the next step.

My love and fealty to you both.

—Tina

“See?” I whined. “Why can’t I get e-​mails like that? Not only is it clear and understandable, it’s in English!”

“My love, what in the world are you talking about?”

“Look!” I stabbed a finger at the printout of Marc’s latest rambling.

hey , grrrrl, miss you bad. things out here are BTW, but I’ve got a handle on it. Laura says howdy and wants you to GBH ASAP. tell your magically delicious hubby to answer tina’s e-​mails; the grrl is FRO! later, marc.

“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” I muttered. “This might as well be in French.”

“What is a FRO?” Sinclair asked, studying the printout.

“My point! How should I know? When I send an e-​mail, I actually spell words out. And use punctuation.”

“Light of my life, while I enjoy tirelessly listening to your never-​ending litany of complaints, I believe we have slightly more pressing matters to discuss. For example, your attempted murder. And our appearance before the Council.”

“Yeah, yeah. But we’re getting back to this e-​mail thing.”

We’d been back in our suite for about twenty minutes. The first thing Sinclair did was strip me out of my ruined suit and blouse and examine me from head to toe. It was a waste of time—I was fine. But sometimes there was no talking to the stubborn cuss I had married.

“So, dish.” I had put BabyJon down for a midnight nap and was lying on our bed, covertly feeling my chest now and again. Nope, no gaping holes. “What happened after I got stabbed?”