Yeah. Praying. Praying to Laura.
I don’t know what I should do with this information, not to mention the stuff that happened afterward. Betsy has enough on her plate these days. And it wasn’t like Laura had killed anybody.
In fact, the way she handled it was nothing short of hilarious. She—
Wait. She’s calling me from the hallway. More later, dude.
Chapter 15
When I next opened my eyes, it was, according to the grandfather clock bonging away at the other end of our suite, four o’clock. Our bedroom was utterly gloomy, thanks to all the heavy curtains, so I stretched and sat up, swung my legs over the bed, and thought about what to do.
Sinclair was still—ha, ha—dead to the world beside me. He was on his side, one arm flung out, palm up. His normally pin-neat hair was a ruffled dark mass; his lips were slightly parted.
I watched his chest for a long time . . . three minutes, almost. I think it rose once. But he felt like living flesh; he was warm (we’re speaking comparably, of course). He wasn’t a corpse, he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t alive, either.
Undead.
Stupid word, I’ve always hated that word.
This was the part of every day when I deeply pitied my husband, and I would never tell him. Sinclair needed me for several things—pity wasn’t one of them. He didn’t have to sleep all day, and he could stay awake when the sun came up (unlike yours truly, who would drop like a puppet with her strings cut as soon as it was dawn) but he could never, ever go out into the sun.
I, however, could.
So I got to my feet and checked on BabyJon, who we’d set up in the small sitting room. And by the way? The guy who invented the port-a-crib? A genius of Jonas Salk proportions.
Anyway, he was in his crib, flat on his back with his little arms in the “this is the police, put your hands up” position. If he grew up to be anything like the Ant, he couldn’t practice that position soon enough.
I couldn’t help but smile when I looked at him. Don’t get me wrong, it was unfortunate that my father and his wife died. But BabyJon was mine, now.
Forever.
Best of all, he was adjusting to the new sleeping schedule. After all, I can’t have a kid running around during the day when I sleep. No, BabyJon was officially on graveyard shift now, and for a long time to come.
I wondered what I would tell him when he was older. “Mom, why is there an unconscious man stuffed in the closet?”
“Nothing to worry about, dear, Mommy just wanted a snack.”
Hmm. Better rethink that one. Later. Besides, since he’d be growing up with us, he’d probably think it’s normal for parents to stay up all night and never eat solid food. Or age. Or poop.
A problem for another time, so I popped into the bathroom, which was more or less unnecessary, but old habits, right? Sometime during our late-night chat with the Wyndhams, a castle employee had unpacked our clothes and stocked the bathroom. Good stuff, too—Aveda products.
Feeling minty fresh, I left the bathroom, and pulled on brown velvet leggings and a long-sleeved blue flannel shirt. I was always cold, and had long since donated all my tank tops to Goodwill. I slipped into my Cole Haan Penny Air Loafers and was ready to face the day. What was left of it, anyway.
I had to walk through the rest of the suite, and after a second I realized that our suite was on the west side of the castle. Okay, mansion—really huge, amazing mansion. That looked, to my Midwestern eyes, awfully like a castle.
Someone was being pretty thoughtful. Never let it be said that werewolves weren’t polite hosts—I only had to look around our guest suite to see that. But I drew all the curtains anyway, just to be on the safe side. I didn’t want to take the smallest chance that Sinclair might get burned. The sun wouldn’t go down for another four hours or so.
I stepped out into the hallway, pulled the door closed, and nearly fell over Jessica, who was all but lurking in the doorway of the suite directly across from ours.
“You know, they did let you have that room,” I said. “In fact, I think they’re assuming you’ll use it, as opposed to lingering in strange hallways.”
She responded to me with, “Girl, I am bored outta my tits.”
“Can we have one cross-country quest without talking about your tits?”
Her pretty dark eyes went narrow and thoughtful, and she caressed her cheek with a long fingernail colored jack-o’-lantern orange. After a thoughtful pause, she shook her head. “I don’t see how.”
“I figured.” I scanned the hallway and listened hard: it was as empty as it looked. “Want to find the kitchen? Maybe whip up a—”
“If I have to look at another smoothie this month, I’m going to barf in one of your Beverly Feldmans.”
“And face a terrible, prolonged death.” We fell in step and, when we reached the main staircase, I pointed in the direction of the kitchen—or whatever room smelled like spices, meat, and fresh vegetables.
“How can you be bored in the middle of a Pack of werewolves?”
“Easy. They’re not talking to me. The ones I bump into are soooo polite—bathroom’s right there, the east wing’s over there, one of the indoor pools is through there, the weight room is over there—but I’m a cipher here.”
Jessica, well used to my blank expression, correctly interpreted it as “I am unfamiliar with that word; please explain” and added, “I’m a nobody. A nothing. A zero. This is about vampires and werewolves, which, thank God, I’m neither. No offense.”
“Who could be offended by that?” I muttered, jumping down the last four steps. “That way. Then a right. So, they’ve been nice to you at least?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Listen, I think it’s really good that you’re here—”
“You’re the worst liar in the galaxy.”
“Shut up. Anyway, I sort of forced BabyJon on Sinclair—”
“This I already knew. The entire street knew,” she added thoughtfully.
“—because we’re his parents now and we have to learn how to be a family—”
“Uh-huh, yup. Getting to something I don’t know anytime soon?”
“—but I can’t watch him every minute I’m here.”
“I don’t mind watching him—much—but you know he’ll only be cute and cuddly with you. With me . . .” She sighed. “With everybody else, it’s colic city.”
“Sorry, Jess. I can’t help that. But I appreciate you watching out for him for me.”
She waved it away, and obediently turned left when I pointed. We were now in a slightly narrower hallway, on hardwood floors this time, no carpet. The smell of food was very strong.
“At least you got the boy trained. Sleeps half the day and half the night.”
“He’s really very sweet,” I whined.
Jessica snorted and straight-armed the swinging door into the kitchen.
Like everything, the Wyndham kitchen made mine look like a dining nook. At least four big tables—the kind you could chop anything on—with long legs. Another big table, marble-topped, probably for baking. Three fridges. Another door, which led to industrial-sized freezers. I could smell the Freon.
There were huge windows—one overlooking a kitchen garden—on every wall. The windows on the opposite wall overlooked the Atlantic.
“I could get used to this,” Jessica commented.
“So buy something just like it. You’ve probably got enough money in the sofa cushions for a down payment.”
Jessica shrugged and went to the nearest fridge while I slid onto a bar stool. “I like the place in St. Paul.”
I nodded. Shoot, before the mansion, she’d lived in an ordinary house in the suburbs. She had never lived rich, dressed rich, ate rich, or looked rich. It was one of her many charms.
“So you’re not, um, hungry, are you?” Jessica had extracted an apple and a Diet Coke. Wait’ll I ratted her out to Marc! He considered diet pop one step up from muriatic acid, whatever the hell that was.
> “Naw. Sinclair and I snacked on each other for a while last night. I’m good for a few days.”
“Good to know. If you go nuts and accidentally chew on one of the locals—”
“Right, I get the picture, and duh, like I haven’t thought of that. How dumb do you think I am?”
Her answer was muffled in the loud crunch as she went to work on the apple . . . probably just as well.
“So, that Jeannie seems nice,” Jessica said, masticating slowly.
“Shhhh,” I said, putting a finger to my lips.
Jessica gnawed and crunched and all but growled at her McIntosh for a good minute, when the doors swung inward (werewolves must just know if someone’s on the other side; probably because they could smell them) and in walked Jeannie, carrying a toddler, and behind her, Lara.
“Hello,” Jeannie said. The toddler, a boy with his mother’s wild blond curls and blue eyes, waved a chubby hand in our general direction. “Sleep all right?”
“Like the dead,” I said cheerfully.
Jeannie rolled her eyes at me in a remarkable imitation of Jessica. She carefully set the toddler down in a high chair, strapped him in, then started rooting around for toddler food.
“Mmmmph gmmmph mmmm nughump mph,” Jessica commented, tiny pieces of apple flying like shrapnel.
“She didn’t know you had another kid.” Or forgot Jeannie had another kid . . . she’d been a little out of it when the Wyndhams visited us the last time. Chemo really plays havoc with your memory.
“This? This is Sean. And you remember Lara, Betsy.”
“Hullo,” the tiny werewolf said as she opened the fridge, pulling out a small Tupperware bowl. She popped the lid, and—
“Don’t you dare,” Jeannie said severely, pretending not to hear the delicate sound of Jessica’s gagging. “You have one of the chefs cook that hamburger, or ask me to.”
“But it tastes better when it’s raw,” Lara the Weird whined.
“You heard what I said.” Jeannie plunked a Lunchable in front of her son, who carefully began dismantling it and eating.
“But I want to eat a raw hamburger.”
Jessica raised her eyebrows at me while Lara placed her teeny hands on her teeny hips and glared up at her mother.
“Tough nuts,” Jeannie replied with admirable unconcern. “And that locked gaze might work with your father and the others, but it doesn’t do diddly to me. So: Cooked hamburger? Or no hamburger?”
“No hamburger.”
“Ah, starving yourself to spite the woman who gave you life.” Jeannie leaned against the counter and put a hand over her eyes. “Ah, ‘how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.’ ”
“Mommy Shakes,” Sean said, carefully picking up a pepperoni slice and popping it into his mouth.
“Yes, that’s right, Mommy likes to quote Shake-speare.”
Lara sighed. “Since I’m not going to eat my snack, can I go to the playground?”
“Lara, I’m sorry, but I can’t get away right now—your father and I have some stuff to talk about.” Her gaze slid to me, but I don’t think she was aware of it.
“I’ll take her,” I volunteered. “I’d like to get outside.”
“Oh. Well. That’s very nice, Betsy, but you’re not really used to werewolves, y’see, and—”
“Not used to—Hello? I lived with one of them?”
Jeannie gave me a long, speculative look, then beckoned with one finger. “Step over here with me for a moment. Would you?”
Jessica shot me her you’d-better-tell-me-everything-later expression and added, “I’ll keep an eye on your boy for you, Jeannie.”
“That’s great, Jessica. If he wants another Lunchable—”
“And he will,” Lara piped up.
“—they’re on the bottom shelf in the fridge to your right.
So saying, she spun on her heel and walked out through a different door, one I hadn’t even spotted until Jeannie moved toward it.
I guess I was going back down the rabbit hole. Me and Alice.
Chapter 16
I’ll trust you with my daughter,” Jeannie began the moment she’d started up four washing machines at once. The mysterious door had led to the mysterious Laundromat. The Wyndhams had their own Laundromat! Unreal.
Anyway, she got a bunch of the machines going and I was puzzling over that when I suddenly realized: she didn’t want Lara to overhear. Or anybody close by to overhear.
“I’m doing this,” she continued, “because I know you liked Antonia and wouldn’t have seen her dead. I’m also doing this because Lara can take care of herself. So if you turn evil and try to bite her or hurt her in any way, don’t be surprised if it’s your head bouncing across the playground.”
“That’s, um, sweet. You must be very proud.”
“But I need you to remember this: a werewolf cub is not a human child. They’re different.”
“Okay.”
“They’re faster. Stronger. Even crueler. She looks like a little girl to you, but you must never forget—she is her father’s daughter, the man who had to kill over twenty-five werewolves to take the Pack. Do you understand?”
I just stared at her while all around us washing machines went shhh-thump, shhh-thump, shhh-thmmp.
I’d expected the standard warning: if you bite my kid, I’ll hunt you down and shoot you dead.
But it wasn’t like that. Jeannie wasn’t scared for Lara.
She was scared for me.
“I told you something like this before, but you had a lot going on at the time. This time I’ve got your full attention. Right?”
“Right, absolutely, you bet.”
“As long as we understand each other.”
“Oh, we totally do,” I assured her.
“All right, then.”
“All right.”
Chapter 17
With her warning still ringing in my ears, we trooped back to the kitchen after Jeannie opened one of the dryers, groped around inside, then turned the dryer back on. “A quilt,” she explained, and I nodded just like this was an ordinary week, day, conversation, whatever.
We got back just in time to hear Lara laughing and Jessica’s “Ooof ! All right, all right, you crummy kid, you win the bet.”
Jessica, obviously the loser in a game of arm wrestling, looked relieved to see me as she rubbed her shoulder. “Ah, the Mysterioso Twins are back. What’s up?”
“Just giving her directions to the playground,” Jeannie calmly lied. “Lara, you can go, but you mind Betsy like it was me talking—you understand?”
“Yes, Mom.” Lara slid off the stool and faced me.
“Hi again,” the next Pack leader said.
“Nice pigtails,” I replied.
Chapter 18
That was how I found myself taking Lara—Michael and Jeannie’s eldest—to the nearby playground for good, clean, wholesome werewolf fun.
She was a cutie, no question. She had her father’s eyes, that odd yellow-gold I’d seen on television nature shows—eyes the color of an owl’s, or a hawk’s. Slender and straight, with her curly dark hair pulled into pigtails. Jeans and a Hannah Montana T-shirt. Maybe . . . six?
“—then Daddy said you were going to bring Antonia back but now you have to talk to the Council and nobody knows what will happen after that but Derik’s really upset because he loves—loved—Antonia and—”
“Where the hell is the playground?” I muttered. Lara, as far as I could tell, hadn’t taken a breath in the last eight minutes. We’d taken a path that led off the grounds and onto a small, brick-lined sidewalk beside a bike trail. Lara had explained that it was “really close.” Sure it was.
“—had to go before the Council since Grandpa took over the Pack so nobody knows what’s going to—”
“There is no park,” I muttered. “That’s my theory. I’m trapped on a never-ending sidewalk beside a never-ending bike path.”
“—walk around outside?”
“I said, how come you can come outside? It’s daytime.”
“I just can.”
“But how come?”
It sounded too dumb to say it out loud, but I did it anyway. “Because I’m the queen. Sunlight can’t hurt me. Only a knockoff shoe sale can hurt me.”
“Because I thought you’d have to sleep in a coffin but my friend said you guys have one of the guest suites and there’s no coffins in there and—”
I stopped. Lara halted beside me. We’d rounded a tree-lined corner and suddenly the park was spread out before us. There was a large sign at the entrance that read, MICHAEL WYNDHAM SR. MEMORIAL PARK.
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Let me guess.”
“You don’t have to guess,” Lara said, giving me a look I knew well. It was the what-kind-of-moron-are-you look. “The sign’s right there.”
“So your dad made this?”
“No. Daddy’s the third.”
“He’s what?”
“Michael Wyndham the Third. My great-grandpa was—”
“You know what? I’ve kind of lost interest by now.” Legacies. I should have remembered where I was. This was New England, not Minnesota. “Run along.”
So she did, heading straight for the monkey bars. There weren’t many cars in the small parking lot to the left—maybe half a dozen—and about that many kids playing. A couple of moms were sitting on benches on the far side of the park, chatting and keeping half an eye on the children.
Which left me time to think about just what the hell we were in for. For example, just what the hell was the Council? Was it as bad as it sounded? Because it sounded a bit like a trial without a jury. Or a fair-minded judge. And what was I supposed to tell them? I hadn’t made Antonia take slugs for me, or even asked her. We walked in, the bad guy shot, and Antonia died. The end.
I prowled around the teeter-totters and tried to think of a plan. But I had no gift for strategy—I left that shit strictly to Sinclair and Tina—and felt more out of my depth than usual. What were we doing here, anyway?
Let’s say the Council decided the vampires had screwed up. What then? They couldn’t punish us. Could they? Would that mean we’d go to war? That could be a problem—not only did I not know how many vampires were walking around on the planet, I had no way to mobilize them. And I didn’t want to. I found it completely ridiculous that I had to police adults, most of whom were far, far older than I was. And as far as siccing them on werewolves, for crying out loud? Puh-leeze.
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