“Oh, your sister’s a freak,” Cathie said, dismissing the horror of Shoegate with a wave of her hand. “I’ve only known her a couple of days, and I figured that one out.”
“She’s different and nice,” I said defensively, “but that doesn’t make her a freak.”
“Trust me. Having been killed by one, I recognize the breed.”
“You take that back! You can’t put someone like Laura in the same league as the Driveway Asshole.”
“Will you two stop it?” Laura hissed, struggling with the tape. “You’re scaring poor Mrs. Scoman! And I am not in the same league as the Driveway Asshole.”
“I just want to get out of here,” the bound woman groaned. “I want to get out of here so bad. Just my feet. I don’t care about my hands. I can run with my hands tied.”
Then I heard it. “Move,” I told Laura. “The—we have to go now.”
Cathie darted up through the ceiling and vanished, doubtless on top of the recon. Being murdered sucked, but the ghost gig had its compensations.
“What?” Laura asked.
I started to rip through the tape with a couple of tugs, tricky because I didn’t want to hurt Mrs. Scoman worse than she was. “The garage door just went up,” I said shortly.
Cathie swooped back into the basement. “He’s back! And, boy, he is freaked out. Keeps muttering about the damn foster kids, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”
“Hurry,” Mrs. Scoman whispered.
“Please don’t throw up on me. If I do it any faster or harder, I could break all the bones in your hands.”
“I don’t care! Do my feet! Break my feet! Cut them off if you have to, just get me out of here!”
“Carrie?” An appropriately creepy voice floated down the stairs. “Do you have friends downstairs, Carrie?”
“Oh, great,” I mumbled. “The killer has arrived.”
Cathie pointed at the man—I couldn’t see him because we were more under the stairs than beside them—walking down the stairs. “Time’s up, motherfucker,” was how she greeted him, and damn, I liked the woman’s style. What a pity he couldn’t hear or see her!
“Why did no one think to bring a knife?” Laura asked the air.
“Because we’re the hotshit vampire queen and devil’s daughter, and we don’t need knives. Unless, of course, the bad guy ties up his victims with tape. Then we’re screwed.” Ah! I finally got her feet free and went to work on her hands. Because she would have had to run past the killer to escape, I gently shoved her back down when she tried to scramble to her feet. “It’s okay,” I told her. “We’ve got it covered. We really are the hotshit—never mind. I’ll have this off in another minute.”
The killer turned and came into the basement. Saw us. (Well, most of us . . . not Cathie.) Looked startled, then quickly recovered. “Carrie, I told you no friends over on a school night.”
“My name isn’t Carrie,” Mrs. Scoman whispered. She wouldn’t look at him.
Cathie stepped into his chest and stood inside him. “Asshole. Jerkoff. Tyrant. Fuckwad,” she informed him from inside his own head. “Loser. Virgin. Dimwit. Asshat. God, what I wouldn’t give to be corporeal right now!”
“It’s overrated,” I mumbled.
“I can’t believe this loser’s face was the last thing I saw.”
And can I say how weird it was that she was talking from inside him? Blurgh. One of those laugh-so-you-don’t-cry moments.
“You aren’t the foster kids,” the psycho nutjob killer said, looking puzzled. “I thought the kids at the end of the block broke my window again.”
“Score,” I said under my breath, tugging away. I’d figured if the killer got home while we were still there, he’d see the window I’d broken (so satisfying to smash) and assume pesky kids, and wouldn’t immediately flee the state. And it wasn’t like he could sic the cops on us. “What did I say? Huh?”
“Yeah, you actually had a good idea,” Cathie snarked. “And we’re not calling the police right this second why again?”
“Why did you kill those women?” Laura asked, the way you’d ask someone why they picked a red car over a blue one. “Why did you steal Mrs. Scoman?”
“Because they’re mine,” he explained, the way you’d explain about owning a shirt. Everyone was being all calm and civilized, and it was freaking me the hell out. I could smell trouble. Not a huge talent, given the circumstances, but it was still making me twitchy as a cat in heat. “They’re all mine. Carrie forgot, so I have to keep reminding her.”
“Psycho!” I coughed into my fist.
“Did you really,” Laura began, and then had to try again, “did you really strangle them until they pooped, and then make fun of them after you stole their clothes?”
“Laura, he’s crazy. You’re not going to get a straight answer. Look at him!”
Unfortunately, looking at him didn’t help: he looked like a lawyer on casual Fridays. Nice, clean blue work shirt. Khakis. Penny loafers. Not at all like the slobbering nutjob he obviously was. “Look at him!” was not good advice.
Then he fucked himself forever by saying, “It sucks when you get the bra off and find out they don’t have a decent rack. I don’t mind them lying about that other stuff, but tell the truth about your tits, that’s what my dad used to say. Otherwise, it’s like lying.”
Then, of course, he was dead, because Laura leaned down, picked up a chunk of wood off the pile, and broke his head in half. I screamed. Mrs. Scoman screamed. Even Cathie screamed, but I think she was happy. I wasn’t. I was in hell. I think Mrs. Scoman thought so, too.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
“Had I known you’d be so ungrateful,” Laura sniffed, folding her arms across her chest, “I might not have bothered.”
“Uh-huh. At least that doesn’t make you sound petty and unstable. Look, I’m not sorry the creep is dead, all right? But you went off and it wasn’t because you felt bad for my situation, or Anna Scoman’s, and it wasn’t even because you were scared. You went off because you wanted to, because you could, and afterward you pretended nothing had changed, that you were the girl your adoptive parents raised and not your mother’s daughter. That—that’s willful blindness and it scares the shit out of me.”
Loooong silence to that. It was one of those “I don’t know where to look so I’ll let my gaze bounce all over the place like a Ping-Pong ball” moments. After what felt like twenty or thirty hours Laura came up with her rebuttal.
“I might have known you’d end up in Hell,” she said with a sad shake of her head. “I begged you to move on.”
“Mm-hm,” came the unmoved reply, and I felt a jolt. Because Cathie had a point; Laura was hiding. And when someone pointed out something unpleasant about her behavior, she just burrowed in deeper and went with her default: I am a good person surrounded by evil doing the best I can. I recognized the behavior. I ought to; who’d know about that defense mechanism better than me? (I realize I just insulted myself while complimenting myself, but it’s okay. I’m an enigma.) “That’s how you’re going to deal? You’re gonna gloss over everything I just said so you can focus on something irrelevant?”
“The destination of your eternal soul is not irrelevant,” Laura snapped.
“Cram it sideways, Damien,” was the unrepentant retort. I blinked hard and fast to keep my eyes from widening so far they were in danger of falling out of my head. One of the reasons Cathie and I got along so well was our identical inability to show respect or keep our mouths shut.
“You understand you’re under my dominion now, right? It’s not smart to antagonize me.”
So . . . wait a minute. When she got pissed, Hell was her dominion, but the rest of the time it was the “sisters all the way, ruling Hell together, couldn’t do it without ya!” chant. Hmph. But in the interest of not wanting the Antichrist to find a chunk of firewood a
nd bust my head open, I refrained from commenting. Also, Cathie had proven she could take care of herself. Except for the getting-murdered thing.
“Yeah?” Cathie replied, unimpressed. Probably because she was unimpressed. “I know the new boss. Who is not, despite what the Who said, the same as the old boss.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, more to be saying something than actually contributing because, uh, what? I was not a fan of the crapfest that was seventies rock, and thus had no use for The Who, Zeppelin, the Grateful Dead, Zappa, etc. I tolerated Springsteen, the Talking Heads, and Pink Floyd because they stopped sucking in the eighties, but as for the rest? Pah. This had been a huge bone of contention with past ex-boyfriends. Then I fell in love with a dead senior citizen who thought Glenn Miller was edgy.
I dunno. The baby boomers were gonna change the world, but instead they gave us cable television while never shutting up about how terrific it was that their parents unleashed hippies upon the world. My gross prejudice had nothing to do with the fact that I’d seen a pic of my mom at Woodstock and she might have been topless, waving her arms over her head as she flashed peace symbols with both hands while demonstrating that she didn’t touch a razor. It looked like she had a couple of baby rabbits nestled in her armpits.
I opened my mouth to make peace when the Ant again drew Laura aside and started up with the urgent whispering. I could have heard her if I wanted. Supervamp hearing, yippee. But I’d spent years not wanting, so I turned my attention back to Cathie.
“It’s not that I’m not happy to see you,” I began carefully, a veritable mistress of tact.
“Oh, here we go.”
Yes, she was right to be suspicious. “It’s just that things are pretty nuts right now what with the—uh—regime change, I guess you could call it? So maybe give Laura time to find her sea legs. Hell legs. What-have-you.” I cleared my throat and changed the subject. “So, did you do it?”
“What?” Cathie seemed inclined to follow my change of subject lead if her yawning and scratching were any indication. I had no idea if ghosts got tired, or itched, so I kept my mouth shut.
“You said you wanted to see the world, remember? When you explained you wanted to go walkabout for a bit. You said in life you’d never even been on a plane.”
“Oh!” She brightened. “I have now.”
Argh, so—many—sarcastic—TSA—jokes. Must—fight—my nature—argh—sarcasm stroke—imminent—
“Ow, you’re putting too much pressure on my incredibly juvenile sense of humor,” I groaned. “Ghosts having to get through TSA to fly? Or not, I guess; if they can’t see you, they can’t frisk or wand you, right? You just walked on and hung out in the plane for the duration and followed everybody off when it landed in . . . I dunno . . . Rome? Paris?”
“Dallas, actually. You worry,” Cathie told me, sounding composed yet bemused, “about the weirdest things.”
I was about to refute that when my phone dinged again. I fished it out for a look.
Twins missing. Return at once.
“What?” I gasped, clutching my phone so hard I could hear it start to creak. I loosened my grip before shards of metal and glass could be driven into my palm. “Oh, Jesus!”
“He’s not here right now,” Cathie said helpfully, “but maybe you could leave a message with that one?” Jerking a thumb in the Ant’s direction, who bristled at “that one.”
I barely heard her, and by then Laura and the Ant had broken off their chat and looked over. “Betsy?” the Antichrist asked, concerned. “Something wrong?”
Yes, and I had no idea what could have happened. Missing? How could they be missing? Okay, the mansion was disorganized on the very best of days, but it wasn’t like the babies could hitch a ride outta the chaos. When you put them down somewhere, they stayed put. “I have to go. Laura—I’m so sorry—” I held up the phone to show her and was relieved when I saw her eyes widen and her expression go from long-suffering to stricken.
“Of course. Yes. Do you—should I come with?”
The Ant snorted. “Laura, you’re a credit to my gene pool but still far too naïve. Obviously Betsy has set up some kind of ‘fake emergency-text me in half an hour so I have an excuse to leave’ thing.”
“Sure, because I had complete confidence in my wireless plan and totally planned on being able to send and receive texts in Hell,” I snapped back. Thinking: what a brilliant idea! If the twins weren’t missing I could have stolen it. Babies wreck everything. “Do you even hear yourself anymore?”
“Do you? You made a promise, and I don’t care what the made-up reason is, or even the legitimate reason, you’re going to stay here and keep your word.”
I didn’t remember moving but at once I was in her face. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” The Ant leaned away from me without moving her feet and her mouth went tight. “You don’t give the orders here. The moment I killed the devil your job title changed to Annoying Nobody, so how about you shut the fuck up and let the grown-ups talk?”
The Ant glanced over at Laura . . . and Laura didn’t come to her defense physically or verbally. My stepmother’s mouth went tighter (her lips were almost inside her mouth by now) and she forced herself to meet my gaze. “Apologies,” she managed. “It seems—it seems I did forget. Who I was talking to.” A wintry smile. “It won’t happen again.”
I opened my mouth to really let the bane of my adolescence have it
Why are you having a pissing match with the Ant when your best friend needs you?
then turned to Cathie instead. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to—”
“Duh. Of course you do. If it’s all right, I’ll stick around here. Not that I wouldn’t get a kick out of seeing your gang again, but when you get back here you’re gonna need all the help you can get.”
I nodded and began texting back. Coming.
The Ant had recovered because she let out her trademark inelegant snort. “Really, Cathie. Not necessary though it’s adorable that you offered your help. I’m sure my daughter and that other woman—”
“I’m right here and you know my name, foul temptress of middle-aged men!” I nearly screeched.
“—will let you know if they require your assistance.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Cathie replied pleasantly, which was just so wonderful I almost burst into tears of admiration. “That’s for ‘that other woman’ to decide.” She turned slightly and gave me her full attention, which was intimidating and reassuring all at once. “Whatever’s going on topside—yeah, I know we’re not actually underground; old habits, y’know?—you’ll eventually be back here. And you’ll have more people offering to help you through the regime change than you can shake a stick at.”
“Absurd saying,” the Ant muttered to Laura, who only shrugged in reply.
She ignored them and stayed focused. “Plenty of souls around here will come across as just soooo helpful and respectful and pretending there’s nothing in it for them, and that’s fine, that always happens in times like this.”
“Times like this?” my sister asked, amused. “This is unprecedented, a once-in-a-million-year—”
“Regime changes aren’t even a little new,” she replied, bored, and then got back to me. Meanwhile I was so impressed that she fearlessly blew off the Antichrist and her horrible, horrible mother I was giving serious thought to kissing her on the mouth. I was sure Sinclair would understand. “But remember, fanged blondie: I helped you when I didn’t have to, when there was nothing in it for me, and I did it long before anyone here had even heard of you. And I’m willing to do it again. So.” One more shrug for the road. “That’s all.”
“That’s plenty,” I replied, a genuine smile lifting my spirits for the first time in what felt like days. “I’ll remember, Cathie. And I’ll see you again soon. For now, though . . .” I glanced down at my silver shoes. “There’s no place like—I dunno. Wher
ever you hang your hat?”
Not terribly catchy, but good enough.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
“If I were Jessica’s weird babies,” I mused from our toolshed, “where would I go?”
Where indeed? Where were the hot spots for humans younger than milk shelf life who are plagued with incontinence, can’t roll off their belly or back without assistance, and can’t talk? Also, what the fuck was I doing in our shed?
My teleportation skills needed work. Also my sexual, social, political, and cooking skills, but first things first. Of course I hadn’t been practicing a newly discovered skill that would probably take years to master. Puh-leeze! People might see me and leap to the conclusion that I planned to help run Hell sooner rather than later. I was lucky I hadn’t landed in Minot, so the toolshed wasn’t the worst. Except ugh. Toolsheds.
I started picking my way through/past dirt (bagged and otherwise), the rusted hulk of an engineless push mower (do they even sell those anymore? and if not, how old was our very own ticket to lockjaw?), mouse poop (should maybe tip Marc off about the treasure trove of test subjects), and various garden implements until I was outside. The shed was so yucky I was actually pleased to find myself outside in bitter cold, shivering and shin deep in snow.
I trudged my way around the side of the house to the front, climbed the few steps, and then remembered I didn’t have my purse and thus was keyless. So I shivered and started knocking on our immense front door.
“Guys?” Rap-rap. “It’s me!” Pound-pound. “I’m here to save the day! Or something.” Kick-kick. “Please let me in? Guys? Hellooooo?” Kick-pound-kick-pound.
All right, enough of that. Yeah, I could have kicked the door down. But the snobs over at Big Bill’s Door Repair (“We’re always open, so your doors aren’t!”) were getting downright nasty about all the work we’d been calling them for, something about how our house was a national treasure and we should treat it better than we were and how was it possible for a mahogany door to be forced off its hinges twice in the same week . . . I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention. Big Bill liked to nag, and I liked to tune out, so it was a perfect relationship. At least from my end.
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