MaryJane Davidson - Undead and Uneasy

Small wonder. The Ant, Satan rest her soul, had stuck him with night nannies all the time, and they had encouraged him to sleep so they could goof off.

I groped for the bedside phone, forgetting to check the caller ID. “Mmph. . . lo?”

“—can—hear—”

For a change, I actually identified the crack In voice. “Marc! Where the hell are you?”

“—can't—make—drop—”

“Are you hurt? Are you in trouble?”

“—trouble—fucked—death”

“Oh my God!” I screamed, instantly snapping all the way awake. I glanced at the bedside clock; four-​thirty in the afternoon. In his port-​a-​crib, Babyjon snored away. “You are in trouble! Can you get to a computer? Can you send me an e-​mail? Why aren't you answering my e-​mails? Tell me where you are, and I'll come get you!” With a baby in tow, I neglected to add.

“—can't—worry—trouble—”

“Where are you?” I hollered.

“—dusk—dark—come—”

“I'll come, I'll come! Where are you?”

''—see—stars—''

“Marc?”

“—worried—”

“Marc?!” I was yelling into a dead line.

That was it. That was it. I threw back the covers of my lonely bed, trying not to realize that things were getting mighty fucking weird (and failing), and got dressed with amazing speed.

I plucked a sleepy, wet, yawning Babyjon from his lib, changed him with vampiric speed (he seemed surprised, yet amused), grabbed the diaper bag and some formula, and headed for the bedroom door to beat feet for Minneapolis General, Oncology Ward. I was breaking rule number two, and I didn't give a tin fuck. Not for the rules of ordinary man was I, the dreaded vampire queen. No indeed! I was—

My computer beeped. Rather, Sinclair's computer beeped (what did I need a computer in the bedroom for? We only had, like, nine offices). The thing hadn't made a peep in days, so for a long moment, all I did was stare. It beeped again, and I lunged for it, ignoring Babyjon's squawk, and saw the you've got mail icon pop up.

I clicked on it (Sinclair had set the thing up so I could use it whenever I wanted), hoping. He knew it was in our bedroom, he knew I'd hear the chime wherever I was in the house, ergo it had to be from—

My sister, Laura.

Grumbling under my breath, I read the e-​mail.

Betsy,

I'm dreadfully sorry I was unable to attend the funeral of your father and my mother. I was, as you know, occupied with the arrangements for the wake and the burial, as well as helping your mother with the baby, but deeply regret my unavoidable absence. I do hope we can get together soon. Please call me if you need anything, or if you run into trouble. God bless, Your loving sister, Laura

“And they that know thy name will put their trust in thee: for thou, Lord, hast not forsaken them that seek thee.” (Psalms 9:10)

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said aloud. “Verrrry helpful.” But I was all talk. At least someone hadn't forgotten me, left the country, or disappeared. Or gotten cancer.

Or if you run into trouble? What did that mean? It was almost like she knew things were getting weirder by the second. Which of course she couldn't. We hadn't even spoken until the day before the funeral, and that was all Ant stuff, not Jessica and Marc and Sinclair and Antonia and Garrett stuff.

I shoved the thought out of my head. Of all the people I had to worry about, Laura was so not one of them. Even if she was, according to the Book of the Dead, fated to take over the world. She was a good kid (when she wasn't killing vampires pretty much effortlessly) with a steady head and a kind heart (when she wasn't killing serial killers), and she was the definitive good girl (even if she was the devil's own). So there. Dammit.

I said it out loud, just to cement the idea into my lead. “So there. Dammit!”

“Blurrgghh,” Babyjon agreed, kicking his footie pajama feet into my hip bones. “Ready for a trip, baby brother?” “Yurrgghh!” “Right. Onward, and all of that.”

I was so used to pouring out my troubles to Jessica—I'd been doing it since seventh grade—that I was actually shocked to find a bunch of doctors and nurses clustered around her bed. I couldn't even see her, much less talk to her. Not to mention, usually there was just one nurse, and that was only if it was time for a new bag of death.

Nick was standing off to one side, watching with his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles in his cheek jumping.

He saw me and said dully, “They're doing another round of chemo. She's something of a nine-​day wonder. Everyone's been invited.”

“But—” Shocked, I shifted Babyjon to my other ¦ boulder, for once praying he wouldn't wake up. “But she just had a round of it!”

“It's a hard cancer to kill.”

“But—but—I have to tell her. . . um, stuff.” Careful, I said to myself. Nick's poor scrambled brains didn't need any more clues that things weren't normal at the House O' Vampires. “I mean, I came to talk to her.”

“Well, you can't.” Clearly distracted, he ran his hands through his thick blond hair. Even though his black suit was rumpled and he had a ketchup stain on his navy blue shirt, he looked like a million bucks: swimmer's build, long legs, sharp, Norwegian features—cheekbones you could shave with!—and ice blue eyes. Before I'd died, he'd been the closest thing to a boyfriend I'd had for years. And we hadn't been that close, frankly. Friendly, not friends.

See, the Fiends had attacked me outside of Kahn's Mongolian Barbeque (this was long before I knew what a Fiend was). And like a good citizen, I reported the assault to the police. Nick had helped me look through mug shots, and we'd shared a Milky Way. That was it. The big romance. It was only after I rose from the dead (after getting creamed by a Pontiac Aztec) that I put two and two together.

Not that Nick knew any of this, and not that I had any plans to enlighten the good detective.

“They're not letting anybody talk to her,” he was saying, bringing me back to the present with a yank. “But I want to talk to you.”

My heart instantly went out to him. Sure, I loved Jessica as much as I loved Sinclair and Manolo Blahniks. But she and Nick had gotten pretty tight over the last few months. This couldn't be easy for him, either.

“Sure, Nicky, honey.” I took his elbow and led him out into the hall. “What's on your mind?”

“In here,” he said, gesturing to another room. I stepped in after him and saw it was an empty patient's room. “Put the baby on the bed.”

Somewhat puzzled, I did so. Babyjon never twitched, bless him. Maybe Nick needed a hug? Maybe—oh God no—he was going to make a pass at me? Maybe he was only going out with Jessica because he couldn't have me! Oh my God! Like things couldn't get worse! Should I let him? Should I knock him out? Should I kill him and tell Jessica he got hit by a bus?

I turned to him and began, “Nick, listen, I don't think you're in your right—”

I stopped talking as I realized something cold and hard was pressed under my chin.

His nine millimeter Sig Sauer. (There were advantages to growing up with a mother who was an expert in small arms.)

“You're not going out with Jessica to get to me, are you?” I managed, so totally shocked that he had drawn his police-​issued firearm and tucked it under my chin before I had time to realize that I couldn't move, much less slap the gun away. I was more shocked by the look in his eyes: flat rage.

“Betsy. I like you a lot. Even before you died, I liked you. But if you let Jessica die of this thing, I will shoot you in the face. I'll empty the whole clip between your pretty green eyes. I don't know much about vampires, but I bet it'll be tough for you to grow your brain back. Such as it is.”