"I have weak eyes," I lied. "The fluorescents really kill. Uh … I just wanted to know if you had any questions."
"I have a question."
All the hair on my arms stood straight up and I nearly shuddered. I knew that voice. Eric Sinclair, bad-ass vampire and all-around sneak. And my consort, God help me. How’s this for ludicrous: most of the vampires think I’m their queen, and that Eric’s their king. My king.
I straightened up and stared off in the distance, cocking my head attentively. "Yes, Satan?" I turned slowly, and faked a big smile for Sinclair. "Oops! Sorry, Sinclair. I got you mixed up with someone else."
He was standing by the tree of shoes I’d made out of Liberty ankle boots, arms folded across his chest, mouth a slash of disapproval. As always when I saw him, my undead heart went pitter. A true irony: I’d had to die to meet someone truly spectacular, and it turned out I couldn’t stand him.
He was dressed in black linen slacks, a dark blue shirt, and loafers without socks. He was wearing a black suede jacket that looked like a Kenneth Cole.
As always, his charisma was like a rough wave. I had to actively resist the urge to cross the six feet between us and put my hands in his jacket, ostensibly to check the label. He was still the best-looking guy I’d ever seen, all rangy height and powerful build and black hair, and the blackest eyes. The eyes, in fact, of a devil.
Not to mention the devil’s mouth. The man could kiss, and that was a fact. It was one of the more infuriating things about him. He’d never asked to kiss me. Not once. Just took what he liked. I hated him, and I hated myself for wanting him.
"I simply didn’t believe it."
"What? I wasn’t paying attention."
The moment had probably seemed longer than it was. I hadn’t seen him since the night we had killed our common enemy, Nostro, and, er, coupled. What can I say, it had been a weird week.
I turned back to my customer, who was staring openmouthed at Sinclair. Her breathing had all but stopped. Her heartbeat was still galloping away. I gave her a poke. "We have several lovely boots in that style."
"I was certain Tina had been mistaken."
"Or I could go get some more from the back."
"So I came down to this capitalist hellhole to see for myself."
I turned. "Do you mind? I’m—aagghh!" He’d crossed the distance between us with his usual spooky speed, and when I’d turned I’d nearly run into his chest.
"This is intolerable."
"Pal, you don’t know the half of it," I said to the buttons on his shirt. I put my hands on his broad chest—ooooh, mama!—and shoved him back a step. "Get lost, I’m working."
"My queen," he said, glaring down at me, "does not work."
"This one does," I said shortly. "And do you hear yourself? Jeez, I knew you were an ancient motherfucker, but even you must know women can have jobs now. And dammit! You made me say ’motherfucker’ at work."
"No consort of mine is going to peddle footwear for minimum wage," he snapped. "Get your things right now. You’re coming back to my-our-home, which you should have done three months ago."
"What home? Last I looked, your mansion was a pile of ash." I ignored the stab of guilt. Sinclair’s thirty-room haven had been torched the night I got snatched by the bad guys and practically beheaded. Then I killed the bad guy and boinked Sinclair. Like I said. Crazy week. "There’s no way you rebuilt it in three months."
"True," he admitted. "I’m keeping a suite at the Marquette for Tina and the others."
"Vampires are staying at the Marquette Hotel?"
"The concierge service is excellent," he said defensively. "And your place is at my side. Not in this monument to consumer greed, waiting on … on tourists."
"What are you, the Fred Flintstone of vampires? Clearly we’ve never met, or you forgot everything you knew about me." I clasped his hand and shook it like a Republican, which I was. His hand was cool, and twice as big as mine. "Hi, I’m Betsy. I’m a feminist, I work for my money, and I don’t take orders from long-toothed jerk offs. Nice to meet you."
He had a familiar expression on his face—anger warring with a smile. "Elizabeth …"
I controlled a shiver. Nobody said my name like he did. First of all, nobody called me Elizabeth. And nobody did it with such a rich, rolling tone, either. He said my name the way diabetics talked about hot fudge sundaes. It was flattering, and distracting beyond belief.
I’d been shaking his hand, but now he was gripping it in both of his. This was nerve-racking, to put it mildly. I could pick up a car, and had. Sinclair was at least twice as strong. "Elizabeth, be reasonable."
"Not in my job description. Go away."
"You succeeded admirably, you know. I’ve come to you. You’ve won. Now return with me and"—he leaned in closer. His black eyes filled my world—"we’ll discuss things."
I tried to pull my hand away, with no luck. I resisted the urge to brace my foot on his knee and kick free.
"I had all the discussions with you I care to have had," I squeaked firmly, hoping I didn’t sound as rattled as I was. Have I mentioned that on top of everything else, Sinclair was really good at discussing things? You could say those one-on-one naked chats were his specialty. "You tricked me and you used me and you suck. Literally. And my getting this job doesn’t have a damned thing to do with you, you conceited twerp."
"Then why are you here?" he asked, honestly puzzled.
The man was impossible. "Because I have to work, idiot! I have bills to pay."
He let go of my hand and straightened. This was both a relief—he wasn’t looming over me like a gorgeous Bela Lugosi—and a disappointment. "I have money," he said, trying a smile. It looked ghastly, because I knew he was forcing himself not to throw me over his shoulder and head for the fire exit.
"Goody for you. It’s not mine, you know. Nothing of yours is mine."
"Such lies."
"Will you stop it? Now get lost, I have two hours to go on my shift."
"I command you to resign your post."
I burst out laughing. I actually had to lean against him to keep from falling down. It was like leaning against a great-smelling boulder. Finally I wiped my eyes and said, "Thanks, I needed that. Long day."
"I was serious," he said stonily.
"So was I! Now get lost, you sneaky creep. Go find some other bimbo to lie to."
"I never lied to you."
"Why, you’re lying right now! Ooooh, you’ve got nerve coming out your ass. You—"
"Ahhh … Betsy? Is there a problem?"
We both turned. Sinclair let out a small, exasperated growl at the interruption. As if he didn’t have enough odious qualities, he was unbelievably arrogant and felt strongly that peons should keep then-distance.
My boss, Mr. Mason, was standing by the cash register. He was holding one of his clipboards—he had at least five, each with a different color pen attached to the clasp by a color-coordinated string—and looked icy cool, as usual. I didn’t think the man could sweat.
"There’s no problem, Mr. Mason. This"—Asshole. Degenerate. Devil. Plague on my life. Lawful consort—"fella was just leaving."
Mason coughed into his fist. "Do you need a break in the green room?"
"Green room" was the code for "do you want me to get Security down here to kick his ass out, righteous?" This showed Mr. Mason was a man of high intelligence. Humans got the creeps around run-of-the-mill vamps. Something about us just set their radar off. Sinclair wasn’t run of the mill. Women wanted him, and men were scared shitless of him. Deep down in their brains, they knew exactly what he was. But the women—and a disturbing number of men—ignored the part of their brain that told them to get away and stay away. Mason wasn’t doing that.
"No, no," I said hastily. God knew what Sinclair would do to the rent-a-cops. "Really, everything’s fine. My … uh … friend was just leaving."
"This is your supervisor?" Sinclair asked, barely glancing at Mason.
"Ind-may your ow
n usiness-bay. Bye!"
Sinclair locked gazes with Mr. Mason. "Fire her."
Mason’s eyes went blank and shiny, and he actually swayed before Sinclair. He was like a bird being hypnotized by a cobra!
I kicked the rat fink right in the ankle, bruising the hell out of my foot. "Don’t you dare!"
"Betsy … so sorry …" Mason slurred, "Cutbacks … budget … exemplary performance … really quite knowledgeable … but … but … regret … regret …" He was so distressed at being forced to do something against his natural instincts, I expected him to say "Does not compute!" and start sputtering smoke.
"Go back to your cube and forget this ever happened!" I snapped. I whipped off my glasses—Macy’s was divine, but the lights were fierce—and let the full force of my undead mojo, which was considerable, if I do say so myself, flare out. "Do it now!"
Mason ran out. He did it stiffly, his arms never moved from his sides. I watched him go, appalled, and then rounded on Sinclair.
"If you ever—ever!—do that again, I will kick your ass severe."
"Do tell."
"I mean it! Don’t be coming into my workplace and making me say 'motherfucker' and hypnotizing my boss. Now get lost!" I could feel my face trying mightily to get red. Since my blood flowed sluggishly at best, all that happened was that I got a headache.
"You’ll need my help again."
I made throwing up noises in response.
"Oh, I think so," he said coolly, but his eyes were glittering in a way I didn’t like. And where were his sunglasses? "Your very nature assures it. As always, I am at your service. But …" He rested a finger on my nose. I jerked away. "There will be a penalty to be paid."
"Yeah? Will I have to listen to you whining about prophecies and concierge service? Because if that’s the penalty, I’d rather eat glass than take your help."
"Agreed." He gripped my arms and lifted me up until we were eye level. This was startling, to say the least. My heart was probably pounding at ten beats a minute! I heard a double clack! as my shoes fell off my feet. "Before I go …"
He leaned in. I leaned back. It wasn’t easy, since my feet were a good eight inches off the floor. "You put your face on mine, I’ll bite your lips off."
He shrugged. "They’ll grow back."
"Yuck! Put me down."
He sighed and set me down. "Until you need me, then." He turned around and walked out of the shoe department.
I yelled after him, "Don’t hold your breath, loser!" Although he certainly could. For hours.
Strong words. But it took me an hour to stop shaking. It hadn’t been easy, pulling back from that kiss.
Plus, believe it or not, I really hate confrontations.
I turned back to help my customer, but she was long gone. In fact, the entire shoe department was empty except for me. Great.
Damn you, Sinclair.
Chapter 6
"IT’s official," Marc announced. "We’ve got termites."
"Jeez, let me take my shoes off, willya?" I tossed my keys on the hall table and kicked off my heels. "Good morning to you, too."
"Sorry. I got the report this afternoon while you were snoozing, but I had to leave for the hospital before I could talk to you about it."
I followed him into the kitchen. He was wearing his scrubs, and had probably only beaten me home by about half an hour. He was letting his hair grow out, I noticed. It wasn’t quite so brutally short. And he was gaining weight, thank goodness.
When I first met Dr. Marc Spangler, he was on a ledge ready to splatter himself all over Seventh Avenue. I talked him down and bullied him into moving in with me. He decided that living with a vampire was a small improvement over some cop scooping him up in a bucket.
He had my tea all set up for me. I’d never had a roommate before, and I sure liked it. It was really convenient living with someone who could answer the phone during the day while I was sleeping the unholy sleep of the undead. And it worked for Marc, too. I refused to charge rent, so he paid the utilities and ran my errands when he was off-shift. I had always figured doctors made more money than secretaries. I was wrong.
"Termites, huh?" He tried to show me an odious yellow paper, but I waved it away and sat down at the table. "I didn’t think people got termites anymore. I thought that was, like, a ’50s thing."
"Actually, they cause more damage than all other natural disasters combined."
"Somebody’s been spending too much time on the Web again."
"I didn’t feel like downloading more porn." He grinned, which made his green eyes sparkle. That, along with the goatee, made him look like a friendly demon.
That was probably why I liked him from the start. I only knew two people who had green eyes, true green eyes, not the lame hazel color like I had. One of them was my mom.
"Get rid of the bugs, but the house is wrecked. It’s gonna cost big bucks to repair."
"Well, shit."
"Right."
"There must be something we can—did you bat your pretty eyes at the bug guy?"
"Like Scarlett O’Hara. Believe me, it was my pleasure … the guy was built. But alas, he was mostly immune to my charms. Wouldn’t budge on the quote, or the bad news. Got a date Saturday, though."
"Are we sure they’re termites? I thought those little bugs flying around were ants."
"Nope. Insecta Termitidae. In other words, we be fucked."
I sipped my tea and drummed my fingers on the table. Maybe it was time for a change, and God had visited upon me Insecta-whatever to get the message across.
"Maybe Jessica—"
"Shhhh!" I hissed.
"Maybe Jessica what?" the lady said, walking into the kitchen.
"Forget it," I said. "What, did I miss a memo? Are we having a meeting?"
"Actually, yeah." She yawned and grabbed the bread, then dropped two slices into the toaster. She was wearing her usual workday uniform—blue jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals. Her coarse black hair was skinned so tightly back from her skull, her eyebrows were forced up in a look of perpetual surprise. "Pretty inconvenient, too. I hate setting my alarm for two A.M."
"Cry me a river. You don’t think I miss feeling the sun on my face once in a while?"
"Oh, bitch, bitch, bitch," she replied good-naturedly.
"We got the report, and it’s like your guy thought," Marc said.
"Wait a minute. 'Your guy'?"
"Jess paid for the exterminator consult," Marc explained.
I let my head drop into my hands. "Marc, we can’t depend on Jessica to bail us out every time we have money problems."
"We can’t?"
"Marc!"
"Yeah, but …" He shrugged. "She doesn’t care. She’s got more money than she could spend in thirty lifetimes. So why should we care if she wants to help us out? It’s not like she’ll miss it."
"Uh, guys? I’m right here. In the room."
"Well, she’s not paying to fix the house," I declared, wiping tea off my chin, "and that’s that."
"Well, what do you want to do? We can’t sell the house until the termites are kaput. I guess we could get an apartment …"
"Or a suite at the Minneapolis Marquette," I muttered. The smell of sweetly toasting bread was making me nuts. Item Number 267 that sucked about being a vampire: food still smelled great, but one bite and I’d puke. I was strictly a liquid diet girl now.
"What was that?" Jess asked, fishing her toast out of the toaster, juggling them over to the table, and sitting down.
"Guess who came to work tonight to order me to quit and move into the Marquette with him?"
"Eric Sinclair?" They said this in identical, dreamy tones. My best friend and my roommate had a severe crush. Then Jessica giggled. "Eric came to Macy’s? Did he burst into flames the moment he passed the first cash register?"
"I wish. He tried to hypnotize my boss into firing me."
"Did you kill him?" Marc asked.
"I wish. Then I had to work overtime, and then I had to …
well, never mind …"
"Suck blood from a would-be mugger?"
"Would-be rapist, but never mind, I said. I swear, the bad guys in this city are such idiots. When they see me throw their buddy ten feet, why do they assume I can’t do the same thing to them? Anyway. Then I came home to the termite report."
"It’s probably just as well," Jessica said with a mouthful of toast. I shook crumbs out of my eyes as she continued, "It’s not like you were in love with this house. Maybe it’s time for some new digs."
I didn’t say anything, but I gave it some thought. I’d had the house for years … since I flunked out of college. My dad consoled me with a check for twenty thousand dollars, and I used it to put a hefty down payment on my little three-bedroom cottage. I’d outgrown the place years ago, but was too lazy to go through the work of selling and upgrading.
"I’ve got some thoughts about that," she continued, taking a swallow of my tea. "You own the house free and clear, right?"
"You know I do," I replied, exasperated. "You’re the one who paid off the mortgage when I died."
"Right, slipped my mind."
"Sure it did."
"Well, I vote we get my bug fella to spray. Then we list the house for pretty cheap. In this economy, in this suburb—"
"Oh, here goes your anti-Apple Valley rant."
"I’m sorry, I just think towns without a personality are lame," she said with the full snobbery of a twenty-nine-year-old billionaire. "It doesn’t even have a real downtown. It exists because of Minneapolis. Bo-ring."
"Snot." I liked Apple Valley. If I wanted to go to the grocery store and the movie theater and get a hair cut and have a pancake breakfast and grab the latest J. D. Robb, I could do it all within the same half mile … and most of it in the same strip mall. "Big-city snot."
She tipped her fingers at me—the nails were painted lime green, I noticed with a shudder—in a mock salute. "Anyway, I figure we could get one-fifty for it, easy. Even with termite damage. And we turn around and use it to put a down payment on something more fitting for our needs."
"Our needs?"
"I’m getting rid of my apartment. Marc and I talked about it, and we agreed I should move in, too."
Undead and Unemployed Page 4