Undead and Unfinished

by Davidson, MaryJanice

  “All right. You have access to money, shall we leave it at that? Your father made an excellent living, and you have always had access to funds. I have never seen you clean a window nor stuff a bird.”

  “Oh, so because Sinclair the Great didn’t see it happen, it didn’t happen?”

  “My love, I shall swear obeisance to you and drop this entire line of discussion, provided—”

  “Obeisance, awesome, I like the sound of that. I would like gobs of obeisance, but it’s weird that you’re giving up so early in the—”

  “Provided you tell me where the mops are kept.”

  I stopped talking. I blinked. (Did I have to? I didn’t pee, I no longer menstruated, I didn’t sweat, and I didn’t barf. Did I need to blink, or would my undead eyeball just naturally moisten itself, and why was I thinking about eyeball juice right now?)

  “While I am grateful for the momentary silence, I will not deny that the thought of your rebuttal strikes terror in my breast”

  “Dude, can we have one marital chitchat without talking about your boobs?”

  “The mop, my own?” He adjusted the pleat on his Savile Row supersuit, then unbuckled his belt and, okay, major digression here, but I absolutely love the sound of Sinclair’s belt unbuckling. It’s sexy, yet practical. Yet clink-y!

  Anyway, he was unbuckling his belt, clink-clank, pulling his zipper, and now he was sliding out of his pants and yakking the whole time: “Do you know where said mop resides? Do you know how many we have? Do you know”—he folded the pants onto one of his fancy wooden hangers; where a proud rain forest once stood, now there are holders for my husband’s slacks—“where the Mop & Glo is kept?”

  “You don’t even know that,” I guessed. It was a shot in the dark, but I was pretty confident.

  “I will take that as a no.”

  “Okay, so I don’t know exactly where the mops are. That doesn’t mean I’m not repressed.”

  “In fact, it does, dearest.”

  “Because I—” Because I had a brain full of thoughts, and they all wanted out at once.

  Okay. Let me think about this.

  I never had to make a meal or a bed. I hadn’t sewn on a button since seventh-grade Home Echh. I didn’t pay any bills. I didn’t even have to grocery shop, though I still did.

  But Sinclair was white, and old—in his seventies. Or nineties. I could never remember and frankly, never tried too hard. If I thought about the fact that I was gaily and frequently fucking someone old enough to be my grandpa, he could unbuckle his belt until the end of time and it’d still squick me out.

  But! He was old, he was white. Sure, he’d grown up on a farm, but he’d been pretty rich not long after he died. I think not long.

  Hmm. This was a little embarrassing. How much did I know about the love of my life, come to think of it?

  Chapter 6

  Let’s see. He was born and raised in the Midwest.

  His parents were farmers.

  He lost his folks and his little sister in some awful accident—I was pretty sure it was an accident—and he met Tina (more on her in a minute) the night of their funeral.

  I knew he favored Kenneth Cole shoes, in black.

  I knew he loved strawberries.

  I knew he loved me.

  I knew he loved power most of all.

  And that was pretty much all I knew. If this was a book, and not my life, what I knew about my husband wouldn’t even fill up one page. How’s that for humbling?

  Chapter 7

  My own, you appear deep in thought. Or perhaps you are having a foot cramp.”

  “The former,” I admitted, “and listen, remind me to ask you if you were a Presbyterian. And what your favorite meal was when you were a kid. And how old you were when you found out there wasn’t a Santa. And how you lost your virginity. And if you opened presents Christmas Eve or Christmas morning. And—and other stuff, when I think of it”

  Sinclair blinked again. “My love, are you taking a survey?”

  “Eventually. But I gotta stay on track here, because white guys don’t get to tell blacks or women or Lutherans that they aren’t repressed.”

  “But they are not. Rather, you are not. I very much doubt Jessica has been repressed for even half a moment.” He paused, then admitted, “I cannot speak for Lutherans.”

  “So I don’t cook or clean. Or make beds. Or go grocery shopping except for funsies, or take my car to the shop. Or take it to get the oil changed. Or scrub toilets. Or—” Hmm. He might have a point. “But you’re even less repressed than I am. Let’s see you deny that!”

  “This isn’t a way of distracting yourself from Antonia and Garrett’s death, is it, my own?”

  I abruptly sat down on our bed. Shit.

  And shit again.

  Chapter 8

  Scratch that—I sat down on my bed. Sink Lair had just bought himself six weeks on the couch. “That’s not fair,” I said, and cringed to hear that my voice actually shivered with hurt. I loved the lunkhead, but it wasn’t much fun for me to appear vulnerable and lame to anyone, never mind someone I loved and wanted to impress.

  He stopped fussing with his clothes, came to sit next to me, and carefully draped an arm across my shoulder, as if wondering if I’d jam an elbow in his gut. Or his teeth.

  “I have wondered when would be an appropriate time to discuss this with you.”

  “Try never. That’d be appropriate.”

  “The events leading to their deaths were fantastically stressful and dangerous; there were few opportunities to ponder the consequences of their actions.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much on the nose,” I admitted.

  “Our trip to Massachusetts was eventful enough that you did not have time to properly mourn.”

  “Eventful? Not the word I’d’ve picked.”

  “You have carefully avoided all mention of either of them, and now you’re seizing on things like inoffensive holidays, feminism, and Laura wanting to take a—what did you call it? A field trip to hell.”

  “Well. These are issues I have to deal with. I can’t help that. Wait. When did I tell you about the hell trip? I was working up to that”

  “See how well I know you, my own?”

  He was studying me so intently I could actually feel his gaze on my skin. “In fact, you can.”

  In fact, drop dead. I tried to squash my irritation. “They’re dead. They’re gone, and we couldn’t help either of them. Then, for funsies, we almost had our heads handed to us by a bunch of pissed-off werewolves with Massachusetts accents.” Tough to decide which was more frightening. I’d been called wicked smaht and it had taken a few seconds to decode the compliment. Their accents had sounded as strange to me as my midwestern twang had no doubt sounded to them.

  I took a breath and kept griping. “Now I’ve got the devil bugging my sister every ten minutes and the worst holiday ever looming on the calendar.”

  “And you could not save them.”

  I rested my chin on his shoulder, so I was staring straight into his left ear. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Everything, most charming of queens. It has everything to do with anything.”

  Chapter 9

  The fink I married wasn’t entirely off base. No, we hadn’t really dealt with what had happened. And yes, I sure didn’t discuss it with anybody—not even him. Not even my best friend.

  That was because I knew something my husband and friend didn’t: I was a coward.

  I never looked at the stairs.

  I never looked at the perfectly repaired spokes in the completely repaired banister.

  I never looked at the tiles Antonia fell on, bled on, died on.

  I never used the front door at all; the last time I had done so Antonia had caught a bullet in the brain and her lover, Garrett, had caught wooden spokes in the chest, stomach, and throat.

  Never.

  So, with all that never and all that ever, yeah, okay. I never think about it. On purp
ose, of course. Unlike some, I’ll cough up: of course I never think of it on purpose. Who could never think of that by accident?

  So Captain Buzzkill had a point.

  But that didn’t mean Thanksgiving didn’t blow rocks because it absolutely did.

  “What’s your point?”

  “That your responsibilities entail facing trouble instead of wishing it away.”

  With a bound I was off the bed. “Oh, here we go. Responsibilities of royalty. Leadership. Right. Never mind the fact that your average vampire is about ninety-eight years old. They should be leading me. In vampire years, I’m still a toddler.”

  Okay, huge pet peeve here. I could tell by Sinclair’s expression that he’d heard this before and was unmoved. And yep, it’s pretty childish to whine about circumstances I’ll never, ever be able to change.

  But I hated that I was expected to boss people around who were (a) old enough to take care of themselves, (b) old enough to know better, and (c) way, way old enough to not need a micromanaging vampire queen. I quit all that stuff when I got fired from my last admin job.

  But here we were. And back again: my responsibilities. My, my, I certainly was fulfilling all my if-I-become-Miss-Vampire-Queen-I’ ll-work-tirelessly-for-world-peace vows. The Antichrist went nuts. My father died. My stepmother died and started haunting me. The devil liked to hang around. Garrett killed himself Antonia caught a bullet with her brain ... three times! My best friend broke up with the love of her life, who insisted she pick between him and me.

  Oh my, yes. Everything was aces.

  I was at the door by now, half hoping Sinclair was right behind me. He wasn’t. He was still sitting on the bed. “I’m sick of discussing this.”

  “How is that possible,” he asked coolly, “when we never have?”

  Ouch! “If I go out this door,” I threatened, “I’m ...” Well. Never coming back was untrue, and he knew it. But eventually coming back didn’t have the ominous ring I was hoping for. “... gonna stay really pissed at you!”

  He yawned.

  I went.

  Chapter 10

  l stomped down the Gone with the Wind-esque flight of stairs (carpeted in deep red plush, how positively Scarlett) and passed through a couple of hallways. (This place had more bathrooms than the White House, not to mention armoires, linen closets, dumbwaiters, parlors, bedrooms, and butler’s pantries—I’d found three so far.)

  For the hundredth time I wondered what I, Elizabeth Don’t-call-me-that Taylor, was doing living in a mansion stuffed with paranormal oddities like my husband. For that matter, what was I, Elizabeth Taylor, doing being a paranormal oddity in the first place?

  It hadn’t been that long ago that I was footloose and fancy-free, living on my own, in my own house, not married, not babysitting the undead or the teething, just getting my shit done and occasionally indulging in the new Beverly Feldman spring pump.

  Maybe that was my problem: I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought myself a new pair of shoes.

  How ... how could this have happened to my life? No wonder everything was fucked up! My God, it was all so clear ...

  I had wandered into the kitchen, not quite by accident. The room was as big as a stadium, but warm and inviting ... big long counters, a couple of fridges always stocked with snacks, big bar stools and lots of magazines and newspapers spread all over the marble countertop Tina occasionally rolled out cookies on. (Which was funny, because she couldn’t eat them. None of us could, except Jessica, who was always morbidly worried about gaining weight and edging up into the dreaded 102-pound territory. Where the hell did all the cookies go?)

  As I half expected, Tina was already there. She was freshly showered—no surprise, because she smelled like blood. Just back from hunting, then.

  Tina and my husband had to feed daily (nightly, I s‘pose). The unwritten rule was, we fed on bad guys only. So if you were a mugger or rapist or killer or thief or embezzler, watch out. You were eligible for our nightly snack-‘n’-go program. We’d snack, and you’d just ... go. Where, we didn’t much care.

  She was standing in front of the freezer, hanging on to the open door, wearing her post-shower uniform of a neck-to-toes nightgown of gorgeous, heavy cream-colored linen. With her cascades of blonde hair and her big brown eyes, she looked like an extra from Little House on the Prairie, A hot extra.

  I suddenly realized something I knew about Tina—you know how you don’t know you know something until you realize you do know? (Shut up. It makes sense if you think about it.) What I now knew was that Tina always dressed as modestly as a schoolmarm. The most daring ensemble I ever saw her in was a pair of linen walking shorts topped with a long-sleeved T-shirt.

  She favored skirts and long pants. Turtlenecks and long nightgowns—never anything frothy or revealing. I remembered she once told me she’d become a vampire during the Civil War (or was she born during the war? Couldn’t remember ...); apparently old habits of modesty died hard. Or, in Tina’s case, didn’t die at all.

  She was, I knew, eyeing her vast and weird vodka collection. Like any vampire, she was continually compulsively thirsty. Like me, she occasionally tried to drown it with stuff besides blood. Also like me, she failed every time ... but enjoyed the trying.

  Here she was pulling out a bottle—ugh, chili pepper-flavored vodka. Like a drink made from potatoes wasn’t yuck-o enough.

  Nope, she didn’t want pepper-flavored. Back into the freezer it went. Here came cinnamon. Somewhat better, I s’pose, but nope, she didn’t want that one, either. Here came—aw, no! Bacon! Bacon-flavored vodka! (I swear to God I am not making this up. Wikipedia it if you don’t believe me.)

  I was going to barf right now. Right here in the kitchen near the feet of one of my most loyal vampire minions. Nothin’ was stopping the Vomit Express. Except possibly the fact that I hadn’t barfed since waking up dead in that funeral home three years ago.

  Concentrate. Think about all the nice things Tina’s done. Think about what a crass, crummy thing throwing up on her feet would be. Think about ... think about the fact that she wouldn’t even let you clean it up!

  Chapter 11

  She was Sinclair’s majordomo, which was a fancy word to describe the awesomeness that was Tina, super secretary and administrative assistant to the damned. But she was even more than that.

  She knew where the bodies were buried—not an idle phrase in this house. She knew all the account numbers and passwords. She knew birthdays and death days. She knew favorite foods and allergies. She was practically a genius with firearms—a pretty good trick for someone who’d been born during the Civil War. Or turned into a vampire during same.

  She had made my husband—turned him. And stuck with him ever since, and when she met me, instantly threw her loyalty right at me.

  She was—you know. She was Tina. Tina, undead citizen of the undead with a penchant for booze made from potatoes and flavored with cured meats.

  Really, about all I knew about her was that she turned Sinclair into a vampire the night of his family’s triple funeral, and I guess they’d never looked back.

  Tina and my husband hadn’t hooked up, which I found both a relief and weird—they would have made a gorgeous power couple. I was sort of amazed he’d resisted her, frankly. She was supremely gorgeous, and even better, massively smart. Like, Dog Whisperer smart.

  No, the two of them had just calmly gone about the business of amassing money and property and ... this is going to sound pretty damn conceited, even for me, but they basically spent scores of decades waiting for yours truly to show up.

  Enter moi, recently deceased and pissed off (the latter nothing new; the former extremely new). The night I met Tina she saved my ass. I’ve managed to return the favor once or twice.

  The point? I guess the point was, I loved and admired and lived with and depended on people I really knew very little about. Not that they were taciturn—I just usually couldn’t be bothered. Who cared if Sinclair had been raised Presbyter
ian or Lutheran? Who cared if his grandmother ever made him eat lutefisk at Christmas time? Who cared if Tina had ever been married, ever been a mom?

  Well. They did, probably.

  And I should have.

  Chapter 12

  Majesty, how long are you going to lurk by the door?”

  Of course. She knew I was there, had known I was there probably before I knew I was headed toward the kitchen. I could be quiet when I wanted, but Tina was more ghost than vampire, and nothing got by her.

  “Please don’t pick that one,” I begged, and she chuckled.

  “No, I’m not quite in the mood for that .. I listened hard; did she have a southern accent? No. I was sure she never had—at least, not in the three years I’d known her. It’s possible it had worn off after sixty-some years of living in Minnesota.

  Wait. Was she even southern? Or was I just assuming because she referenced any time line with the Civil War?

  I could have just asked her, but I was too embarrassed.

  “I think .. A low clink as she moved bottles around. “Hmm.” She withdrew ... root beer. Root beer-flavored potato juice.

  “Now you’re just torturing me.”

  “Never, Majesty. I live and die at your very command.” Clunk! Back went the root beer bottle. And here came ... gah, I was afraid to look ...

  Mint.

  I exhaled with relief, a habit from being alive I hadn’t dropped yet. Tina chuckled again—she had a great, low laugh, sort of like ripping velvet. “I think, yes,” she said, setting the frosty bottle on the counter. “Join me, my queen?”

  “Not on a bet” She drank it neat. “Isn’t it cheaper to just guzzle rubbing alcohol?”

  “Yes indeed, but much less satisfying.”

  “Good hunting?” As soon as I asked, I grimaced. Whoever Tina’d snacked on, they were human beings. Not the weekly deli platter from Rainbow Foods.