MaryJane Davidson: Undead and Uneasy

I mean, had been taking care of her. Once he made sure Jessica was squared away, Marc had disappeared, too. That was more alarming than anything else, funerals included: Marc Spangler did not have a life. He didn't date. He didn't sport fuck. His life was the hospital and hanging around vampires.

I'd been calling his cell for days and kept getting voice mail or, worse, no signal at all. It was like he'd gone to Mars.

“—the comfort of many years of mutual love and affection—”

Oh, fucking blow me. Mutual credit lines and many years of the Ant seducing my dad and then begging for a fur coat. He'd married her for lust, and she'd married him for his money And on and on and on, and never mind the cost to my mother's heart, or soul, and never mind that it had taken Mom the better part of a decade to pick up the pieces.

And thinking about the good Dr. Taylor (doctorate in history, specialty: the Civil War; subspecialty: the Battle at Antietam), my mom wasn't here, either. I knew she and my dad hadn't been on good terms for years, and I knew she cordially loathed the Ant (and believe me, the feeling was sooo mutual), but I thought she might come so I'd have a hand to hold.

Her reply to an invitation to the funeral was to quirk a white eyebrow and throw some Kehlog Albren my way: “ 'Sometimes the best of friends can't attend each other's funerals.' And your father and I were not the best of friends, dear, to say the least.”

In other words: Nuts to you, sugar bear.

But she was helping in her own way, taking care of Babyjon. I'd go see them after. Only Babyjon's sweet powder smell and toothless (well, semitoothless; he had three by now), drooly smile could cheer me up right now.

I sighed, thinking of the empty mansion waiting for me. Even my cat, Giselle, had gone on walkabout. Normally I didn't care. Or notice. But it was scary staying in the big place by myself. I wished Sinclair would come home. I wished I wasn't still so mad at him I wouldn't call him. Most of all, I wished—

“The interment will be at Carlson Memorial Cemetery,” the minister was saying. “For those of you who wish to follow the deceased, please put on your headlights.”

—that this was over.

I stood and smoothed my black dress, checked my black pumps and matching hose. Perfect, from head to toe. I looked exactly like a smartly dressed, yet grief-​stricken, daughter. I wasn't going to follow my dead lather to Carlson Memorial, though, and never mind appearances. My headstone was there, too.

I followed the mourners out, thinking I was the last, only to stop and wheel around at a whispered, “Your Majesty?”

I recognized her at once. Any vampire would. I was even supposed to be afraid of her (every vampire was). Except I wasn't. “Do not, do not blow my cover,” I hissed to Marjorie, who looked like a librarian (she was) but was also an eight-​hundred-​year-​old vampire.

She was dressed in sensible brown shoes (blech), a navy blue skirt, and a ruffled cream blouse. Her brown hair was streaked with gray, and her pale face was played up with just the right amount of makeup. “Forgive my intrusion, Majesty.”

“What are you doing at a funeral home, anyway? There's probably a whole back room full of Bibles in this place.”

Marjorie grimaced at “Bibles,” but readily answered. “I read about the accident in the paper and came to pay my respects, Majesty. I regret the deaths of your father and mother.”

“She was not my mother,” I corrected out of years of habit. “But thanks. That's why you're lurking? To pay your respects?”

“Well, I could hardly sit through the service.”

I almost giggled at the image of ancient Marjorie, probably the oldest vamp on the planet, cowering in the vestibule with both hands clamped over her ears, lest she hear a stray “Jesus” or “the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

I, if I may be immodest for a brief moment, could hear any religious epithet, prayer, or Christmas carol. It was a perk of being the vampire queen.

“If you need anything, you will please call on me,” she insisted.

Oh, sure, Marjorie. I'd love to go to the warehouse district and hang around in the vamp library, checking out thousand-​year-​old dusty tomes and being more depressed than I already am. I avoided that place like most vamps avoided churches. Even in life, I'd never been a fan of libraries.

Luckily, Marjorie took care of all that tedious stuff for Sinclair and me. And even more luckily, she had zero interest in grabbing power. She'd lived through three or four kings (I think. . . I was vague on bloodsucker history) and had been content to putter among her stacks while they wreaked their reigns of terror. She had outlasted them all. I wondered idly if she would outlast me and Sinclair. Would she even remember us, two thousand years from now?

As stiff as she was, I had to admit it was nice to see her. At least somebody had bothered to show up, even if it was a vampire.

“Are you going to the cemetery?”

And see my own grave again? Not a chance in hell. But all I said out loud was, “There's nothing for me there.”

Marjorie seemed to understand and bowed slightly as I turned on my (elegant) heel and left.

I had heard the car turn in the drive, of course (sometimes I could hear a cricket from a mile away), but took my time walking to the door and listening to the increasingly frantic hammering.

Finally, after growing weary of my passive aggressiveness, I opened my front door and immediately went for the kill. “Thanks for all the support at the funeral, Mom. Really helpful. Why, with you there I didn't feel like an orphan or anything! Having a shoulder to lean on and all was such a comfort.”

My mother brushed by me, BabyCrap™ (an established property of Babyjon™) in tow. She smelled like burped up milk. She was wearing a blue sweater (in summertime!) and plum-​colored slacks, with black flats. Her mop of curls was even more a mess than usual.

“By the way,” I said cheerfully, “you look like dried up hell.”

She ignored that. “A funeral service is no place for an infant,” she panted, struggling to manage all the paraphernalia. It was amazing. . . the kid wasn't even a year old, and he had more possessions than I did.

Mom thrust Babyjon at me and I bounced him in my arms, then kissed the top of his head. I might have been pissed at her, but damn, I was glad to see him .

“You missed a helluva party,” I said dryly.

“No doubt.” Mom puffed white curls off her forehead. “Your father was all about parties. That's why he was foolish enough to ingest a magnum of champagne and then go joy riding into the back of a garbage truck with your stepmother.”

Hey, they needed a break from all the selfless charity work. I paused, gauged what I was thinking, and then shelved it. Nope. Too soon for jokes. They'd only been in their graves for half an hour. Maybe by tomorrow. . .

“How are you holding up, dear?”

“Like you care!”

She scowled at me, and I almost giggled. Hadn't I seen that scowl enough times in my own mirror? But I remained a stone. “You've had a difficult day. . .”

“And you'd know this how?”

“But my day hasn't exactly been a day at the zoo, either. So answer my question, young lady, or you'll find you're not too big to spank.” This was laughable, since I could break my mom's arm by breathing on it.

“Well?”

“I forgot the question,” I admitted.

“How was the funeral?”

“Besides my entire support system, present company included, abandoning me in my most dire time of need?”

“I think your death was your most dire time of need,” she corrected me. “And the only ones who abandoned you then are underground now.”