Undead and Unwary

by MaryJanice Davidson

  “You.” Laura stopped dead and rapidly shook her head. There was a tiny pattering sound and white and yellow things in her hair. They were—were those eggshells? Yes. Yes, they were. She had eggshells in her hair and some of them were falling to the floor in her agitation. Someone had lost their damned mind and egged the Antichrist. “You!”

  “Me?” I squeaked.

  “I can’t. I can’t do it alone. I probably can’t even do it with you. They’re finding ways to get out of Hell and I can’t make them stop.”

  New crisis avoided. Old crisis: back on.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  “What happened?” I reached up to brush more eggshells from her hair.

  “What does it look like?” she snapped, jerking away from me. Which, for Laura, was the equivalent of kicking me in the shin. If someone bumped into her, she apologized. I’d seen it. Hell, I’d bumped into her. (Once with my fist.)

  It was so annoying. The Antichrist was just one big, constant, never-ending annoyance. I went through most of my life assuming I was an only child and, unlike other only children (Jessica, Marc, others I knew but didn’t live with), I never once wished for a sib. Laura had met my expectations and then some: younger sibs, I had quickly discovered, were a pain in the ass. (I won’t waste anyone’s time with Laura’s theories about recently discovered older sibs.)

  “You were egged in Hell?” I guessed. It was impossible, but the only thing I could come up with based on the evidence. Just picturing it made me want to laugh and then vomit from terror. The dead had eggs? Hell had eggs? I—what? No. I can’t. No.

  “Of course not,” she said impatiently, flicking her fingers through her hair. Anyone else covered in eggs would look like they’d refused to hand out candy on Halloween and had been punished accordingly. Laura, frazzled and out of temper as she was, looked like she was in the middle of an expensive beauty treatment. One that worked. “I forgot my eggs in the trunk.” At my blank expression she elaborated: “Eggs. In subzero temperatures.”

  “So they got super cold?” I guessed. Unless she was the chicken who was supposed to sit on them, I had no idea why she’d care. Also I was positive the Antichrist had more important things to do than sitting on frozen eggs. I mean, she did charity work all the time but surely she didn’t have to stoop to stooping over eggs. This is why I distance myself from charity work. You figure you can get away with just writing a check, and then they show up with frozen eggs for you to sit on.

  “Liquids expand when it’s cold,” she said with exaggerated patience. Or maybe it was regular patience and just really getting on my nerves. “Opened my trunk. Ka-boom. Last straw.”

  “Okay. That happened to me once with an avocado. I was going to make guac for Jessica’s Super Bowl par-tay and forgot one of the avocados in the trunk.”

  “Betsy . . .”

  “The thing was like a rock the next day. A dark green rock with a light green center that used to be a vegetable except it’s really a fruit. Anyway, I was scared to thaw it out—would it work? Would it ruin the guac? Would freezing have rendered it toxic? So I just threw it away. I felt bad wasting food,” I assured the frequent volunteer at soup kitchens, “but didn’t have much choice, you know?” There. My anecdote would show that I empathized with her problems as a caring older sibling while at the same time demonstrating my—

  “I don’t care. I don’t! Betsy!”

  “Hmm?”

  “I need you!”

  Hmm. It was almost like she was trying to communicate distress or something. “Do I want to know why you were driving around with frozen eggs at midnight?”

  “As I said.” She puffed an errant hank of hair out of her eyes. “Last straw. And why do you always focus on the least relevant part of a conversation? Listen to me. They’re sneaking out, Betsy. What if they all leave?”

  “You’re talking about the dead people in Hell?”

  “The souls in Hell,” she corrected, lightening up just a little. “We have incontrovertible proof that the soul lives on after the body dies. Proof!” She smiled and became even more teeth-clenchingly beautiful, which I knew because I was making a concerted effort not to grind my fangs. Laura Goodman looked more beautiful in faded jeans, an old “This Shirt Built a School in Africa” T-shirt, and Uggs, boots that had never been more aptly named, than I did after locking myself inside a Sephora and commanding the makeup techs to have at me. Oh, and let’s not forget her egg-riddled hairdo. I had no idea where she’d ditched the parka. If she’d come directly from Hell to her egg-riddled car, maybe she hadn’t needed one. “I always had faith.”

  Huh? Oh. We’d been talking about eggs, then avocados, and then souls, and now . . . faith? I guess? I was impressed she was able to follow all the threads.

  “I never doubted,” she assured me as if I had accused her of big-time continual never-ending doubt, or called her Skeptic McDoubtypants. “But we know. We have proof!”

  “Our word isn’t proof.” I said it as nicely as I could, because showing the world our trials and tribulations of late had zero appeal. In a future that will never come to pass, I ruled the world. And it was a huuuge downer. What little I’d seen of the other, ancient, grumpy, zombie-raising, Sinclair-killing me had been more than enough. And maybe it had started from something simple; maybe all I’d wanted was to share with the world that, yes, there was life after the body died and, thus, hope. “People don’t know who we are, and shouldn’t, Laura.”

  She ignored this, so the bright-eyed enthusiasm continued unabated. “And there are so few of us who do know! If we could convince the rest of the world, things would change overnight! No more wars, no more murders.”

  Oh boy. “People not knowing if there’s a God is not what causes murders and wars,” I said carefully, because she was glowing like a zealot-turned-lightbulb. “At least, not all the time. I promise you, Laura. I promise. There will always be war and murder because there will always be assholes. They are not an endangered species.”

  She pooh-poohed my cold, hard, pragmatic worldview with a flap of one pretty, pale hand. “That’s to worry about some other time.”

  “Got that right.”

  “But enough is enough, Betsy. I think we both know I’ve been more than patient.”

  “That’s true,” I had to admit. Dammit.

  “So now. Now I have to insist you keep your promise and help me. Otherwise . . .” Her voice faltered, then steadied. “I—I’m lost. I am.” She reached out and clutched my sleeve, and I didn’t pull back. How could I? I’d behaved badly enough already. Also, those big shiny blue eyes were getting to me. The Antichrist had the vulnerable thing down to a soft science. “Please.”

  Sigh. Yep. The time had come. And even if it hadn’t, I now had a very good reason to shelve the whole Dadgate thing. She was right. It wasn’t fair. I was old enough to know that fair wasn’t a guarantee, and young enough to want to keep trying anyway.

  I turned without a word and she followed me back into the kitchen (we’d fled to the sanctuary that was the Peach Parlor to have our convo).

  “Betsy! You have to,” she was saying as I pushed at the swinging door, and, God, the woman just would not let up! It was an intensely annoying trait that didn’t remind me of me at all and that was my story and I was sticking to it. “I know you have a lot of claims on your attention—”

  “It’s true,” I agreed.

  “I never said you didn’t.”

  “Also true.”

  “But I need you. They’re leaving.”

  I nodded and then we were both forced to take in the kitchen chaos.

  In the few minutes we’d been in the other room, the babies had woken and been taken downstairs, Fur and Burr had woken and been let into the kitchen, Sinclair had made a horrifying discovery, Tina was feeding Thing One a bottle while looking for a phone charger, Marc was laughing as Fur
and Burr frisked about beneath the table while licking his ankles, Jessica was poking Marc to keep his attention while holding Thing Two, and DadDick had dozed off. Also, he was a sleep drooler, so . . . gross.

  “Elizabeth!” Sinclair thundered, stooping to snatch Fur or Burr to his chest. They were black Lab puppies, as identical as two peas. Or pees, in the case of not-yet-housebroken puppies. I knew I was reaching the end of my endurance when pee jokes seemed hilarious. “This will not be borne!”

  “I know,” I hastened to assure my deeply fretful husband. “You’re right. It’s not acceptable.”

  “We are out again.” He glared around the room but no one was meeting his gaze, so he settled for fixing it on me. He was quite tall but when he was irked it was like he grew a foot. Or maybe that was just a side effect I felt when cringing away from his ire. “Look at this.”

  He held out an empty canister and shook it at me like it was a Tupperware maraca.

  “Oh. You’re talking about . . . about the snacks for the puppies? Right?”

  “Homemade,” he emphasized while Fur or Burr ran to him to be picked up as well. He stooped, plucked up the other puppy, then went back to towering over me while they fought each other for the privilege of licking his chin. “Their homemade nibbles and kibble—”

  I giggled. Couldn’t help it.

  “—are gone and we lack some of the ingredients so I cannot make more and that is intolerable.”

  “I think ‘intolerable’ is exaggerating maybe a little.”

  His eyes widened in horror, then narrowed. “It’s as if you do not care at all that my darlings had to eat store-bought dog food.”

  “It is,” I agreed, stomping the urge to murder him a lot. “It’s exactly like I don’t care.” Wow. Like I didn’t have enough Dadgate incentive to get the hell away from the mansion.

  “They require meat protein! Not meat by-products. Not stale dog food shelved for a minimum of six months, riddled with road kill. The rule is very simple, Elizabeth. If I will not eat it, the babies shall not.”

  “I have never once seen you gobble a dog biscuit, but you give them to the puppies all the—”

  “Do you want them to develop allergies?”

  “Nope.” I was rubbing my temples and had a thought: God, was this how people felt around me sometimes? Like they wanted to choke me out just to get some peace and quiet? Naw. “Please stop shrieking.”

  “Hey!” Jessica hissed. Thing Two had finished the bottle and was nodding off; Thing One was already conked out in Tina’s arms. “You keep it down! Sinclair, shut up your pups.”

  “I will if you will,” the vampire king snarked.

  “Burn,” Marc pointed out (he can’t help himself) and I giggled (I couldn’t, either).

  “If those puppies and any of this ruckus wakes up these babies . . .” Jess warned.

  “Impossible,” Sinclair scoffed. “Your infants do not sleep. They lapse into temporary food comas.” He leaned in and poked Thing Two’s chubby little arm. Thing Two blew a milk bubble and lapsed deeper into sleep. “See?”

  Jess took an affronted step back. “You got lucky.”

  “Ugh, stop it, both of you. Play nice or I will never leave this kitchen,” I threatened. “Or I’ll leave right now. Whichever you don’t want to happen, that’s what I’ll rain down on your heads.”

  “Actually, whether you want her to stay or not doesn’t much matter,” Laura began after a pointed throat-clearing, “since Betsy and I were just on our way to Hell.”

  That got their attention. It got everyone’s attention. There was a long pause and I realized everyone in the room, with the possible exceptions of Temp Coma Girl, Temp Coma Boy, Fur, and Burr, were waiting for me to explain why I wasn’t, actually, going to Hell. At least, not anytime this week.

  “No, really. I’m going. We’re going.” I sighed and said it. “We’re going to Hell.” Hearing myself say the words was surreal. So were their expressions.

  “Ah . . . my own . . . you cannot. Do you not remember?” Sinclair put the wriggling pups back on the floor, where they raced to me and started sniffing my penguin slippers. Argh. “In light of the dearth of acceptable dog treats, you pledged to help me bake many batches of Cinnamon Bun Bites. Don’t worry,” he added, as if anticipating horrified protests, “we shall use whole wheat flour.”

  “Nope. We absolutely didn’t pledge anything. And frankly, I’d almost rather go to Hell for the rest of the week—”

  “Might take longer,” Laura interjected.

  “—than help you bake. I love you, Sinclair, but . . . no.”

  “I get that. We all get that. But I think you’re forgetting the, um, secret freezer thing we discussed regarding the other secret thing we discussed,” Marc added, jerking his head toward Tina in what I assumed he thought was a subtle head movement. “You can’t leave right this minute. You said you’d help me with stuff.”

  “Marc, are you talking about my birthday?” Tina asked with a delighted smile. She’d been rocking the sleeping baby, and had fed it, then burped it, like a pro. Now she was cuddling it almost absently, like she knew all about babies and was confident enough to multitask while jiggling one. I wondered about who she was before she died. Maybe she’d been a mom. She sure was great with kids, and me. And she adored my husband like a son or a little brother. There were so many things I didn’t know and, while there was no shame in ignorance, mine was because I’d never bothered to ask. And that was shameful. “You are such a darling man! But please. No fuss. I insist.”

  “Don’t fall for that,” DadDick mumbled, cracking one eye open and blinking at Marc. “That’s a trap.”

  “Duh,” was the sophisticated reply.

  “And don’t forget about your, uh, family issue,” Jessica said. “The thing we were just discussing. A lot. Loudly.”

  I almost wept when I heard all this. I couldn’t believe that, despite the argument, despite our differences and the terrible things we’d said, they were all still trying to support my cowardice and give Laura reasons why I couldn’t go to Hell. Even though they all (rightly) disapproved of my cowardly bitchiness, they hung in. Knowing I didn’t deserve support like that made it all the harder not to bawl until I was hoarse and hiccuping.

  “It’s fine, guys. Really. It is.” Thank goodness I no longer cried actual tears, or they’d be streaming down my face, and who needs to worry about chapped cheeks on top of everything else? “Laura’s been a good sport, but the time has come. And I gotta be honest, I’m not sure why I resisted for so long.”

  “Because it’s Hell?” Marc suggested, getting answering nods from DadDick and Jessica.

  “Well, yeah, but I’ve run offices in my old life, Hell probably isn’t much different. Come on, it can’t be any harder than running . . .” I tried to think. “Than running . . . uh . . .”

  Marc rolled his eyes. “Are you trying to remember the name of the nightclub you inherited after killing Marjorie and then did nothing with?”

  “Anything sounds bad,” I said petulantly, “when you say it like that.” After killing the librarian who’d snatched my sweetie, I’d inherited her property. Vampire law. Which made sense, because standard laws of inheritance wouldn’t apply so well to dead people who didn’t age. Anyway, I’d been informed I owned a nightclub, I ignored it for a couple of years, and it was eventually sold. I think.

  Laura giggled, then shot me a grin. “My faith in you is unshaken.”

  “We both know you’re lying. Let’s get a move on,” I told the bemused Antichrist. “Hell won’t run itself. Will it? Probably not. Which is why I’m going there. We’re going there.”

  “I thought you’d fight this at least another two weeks,” Laura admitted, shaking her head. “In fact, this is more than a little suspicious.”

  “That hurts, Laura,” I said with as much dignity as I could, given that I w
as in flannel jammies and penguin slippers. Don’t judge; vampire queens didn’t always glam up and go clubbing during the witching hour. Not when it was this fucking cold out. “You’re family; you know we can always depend on each other.”

  “Consider me reassured,” she replied with an openly disbelieving expression on her face. “I can’t imagine what you’re going to Hell to avoid. Do I want to know what dreadful thing is going on in your personal life?”

  Your personal life, too, little sister, I thought but didn’t say.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  There’s this thing that happens in books and movies when the heroine (moi) stumbles across something weird (my entire postdeath life, and also senior prom) and can’t figure it out (all the time, any of the time) and is a slave to being overwhelmed (like that time my dentist kept hounding me to come back so he could finish the root canal—that guy was obsessed with teeth).

  And every time, every damn time, this idiotic, often pointlessly gorgeous heroine, for whatever dumbass reason (afraid others won’t like her, afraid others will notice she’s turning into a slavering zombie, afraid she’ll get audited, afraid they’ll stop inviting her to parties, afraid she’ll be deported, afraid she’ll get slapped—and by this point, the audience is itching to slap the silly bitch), every time, she keeps it all to herself until the mysterious secret in question blows up in her face. Blows up in everyone’s faces.

  The terrible secret, now hideously exposed, nearly gets her killed or straight up does get her killed (if you’re like me, you’re actively rooting for her miserable death by now). If it miraculously doesn’t, it’s only because it’s the end of the movie when she explains to everyone what the hell’s been going on and, weirdest of all, they don’t fall upon her and murder her in a fit of “why didn’t you say anything, you silly bimbo?” rage.

  Every. Damn. Time. Go on. Test my theory. Stream a handful of horror movies and watch how stupid the heroine is. It’s almost as bad as sci-fi movies featuring scientists who are Just. So. Dumb (*cough* Helix *cough*).3