Undead and Unwelcome

by Davidson, MaryJanice

  “That’s for the Council to decide,” the quiet, dark-haired man said. “Not us. And not here.”

  “But she got Antonia killed! And she doesn’t even seem to care!”

  And that was just about enough. “I didn’t get Antonia killed,” I said, and I could practically feel ears pricking up all over the room. “You did.”

  Sinclair pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

  “And then she—what?” Cain’s jaw sagged and she turned to fully face me. “What did you say to me?”

  “What’s wrong? Should I get a megaphone? Do you not understand English?” Smiling, I beckoned her closer and, when she bent to hear, I said loudly, “I didn’t get Antonia killed. You did.”

  Cain jerked away and rubbed her ear. A few more werewolves sidled over. Sinclair was still shaking his head and looking like the before picture of a sinus headache commercial.

  “I am so sick of this bullshit,” I said, knowing my voice was carrying, knowing everyone in the room could hear me, and not much caring. “I guess it hasn’t occurred to any of you to ask yourselves what the hell Antonia was doing living with vampires in the first place. Oh, hell no! After all, it’s much more convenient to blame us than face the fact that she couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

  “And now,” Sinclair sighed, “we fight.”

  “Here,” I said, thrusting BabyJon toward Sara, who scooped him up and backed off a couple of steps. BabyJon let out a pissed-off yowl, ignoring Sara’s attempts to soothe him.

  “You can’t pass the buck that easily,” Cain retorted. “You were the leader; she was your responsibility.”

  “She was a grown woman, you nitwit! You’re making it sound like she was my kindergarten student.”

  “You’re still passing the buck,” someone else said, a werewolf I hadn’t met.

  “And you’re all conveniently overlooking the fact that not only did you practically drive her to my front door, I didn’t see any of you assholes ever come to visit.”

  “She was her own person,” that same werewolf said.

  “Well, which is it, dipshit? Either she was a grown woman who could take care of herself, or she needed me to shelter and protect her. You can’t have it both ways.”

  “We’re getting a bit far afield,” Sinclair began, but I bulldozed right over him.

  “She didn’t get a single phone call the entire time she lived with us. The only time anyone bothered to show up was after she missed her weekly military check-in, whatever it was. When your info pipeline into the vampires suddenly got cut off, then you showed up.”

  A furious gabble of voices rose, and rose, and I had to shout to be heard over the din. “Not to mention, not to mention, you guys clearly didn’t want much to do with her while she was alive. So all this postmortem concern is a pile of crap. You guys look stupid trying to come off all morally outraged when it was your fault she was living in my house in the first place.”

  The babble of voices got louder, but I was able to pick out one comment from the din: “The bottom line is that she died in your service, so it’s your responsibility.”

  “If they’re even telling the truth about how she died,” someone else said. “How can we ever know? She and her mate don’t have a scent. They can make up any story they like and we’d never know the difference.”

  “Oh, really? Okay. Here’s a story, fuck-o. Once upon a time, there was a werewolf who could predict the future who lived on Cape Cod. And all her supposed friends and family went out of their way to avoid her because she wasn’t exactly Miss Congeniality.” I ought to know; I used to be one. “And one day she moved away and never came back, and nobody in her Pack gave a rat’s ass. The end.”

  More babbling. The din rose and rose. Shouts. Threats. Michael trying to get everyone to calm down. Sinclair rubbing the bridge of his nose. Sara looking like an increasingly nervous tennis match observer. BabyJon crying.

  It was stupid, really. Stupid to forget how fast they were. Stupid to pick a fight in a room full of werewolves. I heard the crash of a chair splintering, and turned just in time to get stabbed in the heart with a chair leg.

  That was pretty much when the lights went out.

  Chapter 26

  Dude,

  I swear my intentions were good. But I vastly overestimated Laura’s state of mind and underestimated the rapidity with which things could deteriorate. And when Tina started having trouble sending and receiving e-mails, I honestly didn’t make the connection until it was too late.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  More Satanists showed up and, instead of hiding from them or being embarrassed by them, Laura started briskly giving them orders. She spent a lot of time on the web finding charitable organizations where she could send the devil worshippers, and soon there were Satanists all over the metro area, cheerfully raising money for the homeless or participating in Meals on Wheels.

  I admit, dude, I was proud of myself. I didn’t go into medicine for the money, obviously, so helping people always put me in a good mood. And Laura, for all her advantages, needed me as much as any patient. It’s just too damn bad I was too busy patting myself on the back to notice what was really going on.

  Tina came and went, always on her own schedule, and I knew better than to ask her what she was up to. Mostly because it was none of my business, but also because she was as closed-mouthed about her work as I was about mine.

  There had been a bad crack-up on I-35—no fatalities, thank God—so I didn’t get home until about 2:30 A.M. I headed straight for the kitchen (I had finally gone grocery shopping, so there was actual food in the fridge), where I found Tina sitting at the counter with her laptop, muttering to herself.

  “Hey.”

  “Good morning,” she said, not looking up.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Mmmm.” Then, thoughtfully, “You had a busy night, I see.”

  Ah. Right. I had found it prudent to change out of my scrubs the moment I got home—or, even better, before I left the hospital. It didn’t matter if the blood on me was ten minutes old or ten hours. They could always smell it.

  “Car crash.”

  “Mmmm.”

  I set about making myself a tuna sandwich while Tina pecked away at her laptop. She seemed a little off—annoyed, maybe, or distracted.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Hmmm?” She looked around as if noticing me for the first time. “Oh. Yes, everything’s fine. I’m getting a poor wireless signal. My e-mails to His Majesty keep bouncing.”

  “So call.”

  “I have.”

  “Oh. You don’t think anything’s wrong, do you?”

  “I’m sure they’re fine.”

  I believed her. But I also knew what was bugging her. Tina lived for Betsy and Sinclair, the way most people lived for racing cars or marathons. When she couldn’t keep in touch, she got antsy. Not unlike a drug addict going through withdrawal, to be perfectly blunt.

  “Betsy answered my e-mail,” I volunteered. It was a typical Betsy missive: bitchy and shrill. She really hated e-mail acronyms. The woman should really catch up to this century’s lingo. “I’m sure she’s already won over the werewolves and they’re somewhere partying like it’s 1999.”

  Tina slapped the laptop closed and smiled at me. “I’m sure you’re right. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go out.”

  To hunt. And feed. She was too polite to say so, of course. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand in her way. A grumpy vampire is a homicidal vampire. Hungry ones were even worse.

  “Heck,” I called after her, “they’ve probably declared it National Betsy Day out on Cape Cod. You know she can win over just about anybody.”

  Yes, dude, I know. In retrospect that was beyond ignorant. But how was I supposed to know they were going to kill her?

  Chapter 27

  I opened my eyes and saw a ring of tense faces above me. The first few times this had happened to me I’d been badly
startled, but now I was getting used to being killed and then brought back to life.

  “Ow,” I commented, sitting up. There was a sizeable hole in my blouse and suit jacket. Not to mention an unconscious werewolf three feet away. And BabyJon was still howling. “You’d better give him to me.”

  Wide-eyed, Sara knelt beside me and obliged. BabyJon hushed at once, giving me a chance to take a good look around.

  “Oh, man,” I said, eyeing the werewolf who, I assumed, had driven a chair leg into my heart. “Sinclair, what did you do to him?”

  “I only hit him once,” my husband replied in that faux-casual tone that didn’t fool me one bit.

  “Where’d everybody go?”

  Aside from Sara, Sinclair, Jeannie, Michael, BabyJon, and Derik, the room was empty. Oh, and let’s not forget the werewolf who killed me.

  “Michael cleared the room after you were attacked. Ah—it’s none of my business,” Sara continued, “but why aren’t you a pile of dust?”

  “It’s a queen of the undead thing,” I said, trying to get my feet under me so I could stand. Sinclair gripped one of my arms, Michael the other, and they hauled me up. I stared down at my ruined suit and sighed.

  “I must apologize on the Pack’s behalf,” Michael said stiffly. He appeared calm, but I had the distinct impression he was mortified.

  And Jeannie was pissed. “There was no excuse for that. At all.” She turned to Sinclair. “You should have torn his damned head off.”

  “Maybe next time,” my husband replied.

  “Again, I apologize.” Michael nodded at the still-snoring werewolf. “He will be dealt with; you have my word.”

  “No, don’t.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Just forget it.”

  “Elizabeth,” my husband began warningly.

  “Let’s not make things any worse than they already are. Look! No harm, no foul. I’m fine. He can buy me a new suit and we’ll call it even.”

  “Unacceptable,” Sinclair said flatly and, wonder of wonders, Michael was nodding in agreement. Finally, they had a goal in common: ignoring my express wishes.

  But for a change I had the chance to be the better man—so to speak—and moved to take advantage of it. Maybe I was beginning to think more politically in my old age. “I mean it, you guys. Let it go. It was a bad situation for all of us. It’s not like I didn’t provoke him. Come on, let’s forget about it and move on. This Council thing—when are we supposed to talk to them?”

  “Tomorrow,” Michael said, giving me a look I’d never seen on his face before. Grudging admiration? Disbelief in my sanity? Maybe he just had to use the bathroom. “Midnight.”

  Ah, yes. Midnight. Not too big of a cliché. But I kept that to myself—I’d shot my mouth off enough for one night.

  “So, we’ll be there. But let’s call it a night for now. I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve had about all the excitement I can take for one day. Night. Whatever.”

  Sara laughed; she was the only one who did. But at least the others seemed to tacitly agree, because they fell back and let Sinclair, BabyJon, and me get back to our suite.

  “Are you okay?” I muttered out of the side of my mouth, patting BabyJon on the rump. Hoo! The boy needed a diaper change in the worst way.

  “I am deeply, deeply regretting not putting my fist through your attacker’s skull,” Sinclair replied neutrally.

  “Don’t worry. There’s always tomorrow.”

  Sinclair snorted, but seemed to lighten up. That was a good, good thing. I’m sure the werewolves were all badass and everything, but none of them had a thing on my husband, who wasn’t only a) the king of the vampires and b) old and wily, but c) wouldn’t tolerate people messing with me.

  If they hadn’t learned that after tonight, there was no hope for them, and no hope for reconciliation. And then what?

  War, maybe. A vampire/werewolf war.

  Swell.

  Chapter 28

  My king,

  Things here are as well as can be expected. I have reviewed the quarterly report from your holdings in Los Angeles and it seems the new security system for the company’s web server is doing the job.

  Laura seems to be entertaining quite a bit in your absence; it seems there are always strangers in the house. Neither Marc nor Laura has said anything to me about them, so I am respecting their privacy and assuming they are trying to fill the void left by the absence of you and the queen.

  I trust this finds you and Her Majesty well. If you require anything of me, do not hesitate to contact me at once. In the meantime, I have FedExed copies of the contracts for your most recently acquired properties. Please review them at your leisure, sign them if they are satisfactory, and return them to me. I will then take the next step.

  My love and fealty to you both.

  —Tina

  “See?” I whined. “Why can’t I get e-mails like that? Not only is it clear and understandable, it’s in English!”

  “My love, what in the world are you talking about?”

  “Look!” I stabbed a finger at the printout of Marc’s latest rambling.

  hey, grrrrl, miss you bad. things out here are BTW, but I’ve got a handle on it. Laura says howdy and wants you to GBH ASAP. tell your magically delicious hubby to answer tina’s e-mails; the grrl is FRO! later, marc.

  “I have no idea what he’s talking about,” I muttered. “This might as well be in French.”

  “What is a FRO?” Sinclair asked, studying the printout.

  “My point! How should I know? When I send an e-mail, I actually spell words out. And use punctuation.”

  “Light of my life, while I enjoy tirelessly listening to your never-ending litany of complaints, I believe we have slightly more pressing matters to discuss. For example, your attempted murder. And our appearance before the Council.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But we’re getting back to this e-mail thing.”

  We’d been back in our suite for about twenty minutes. The first thing Sinclair did was strip me out of my ruined suit and blouse and examine me from head to toe. It was a waste of time—I was fine. But sometimes there was no talking to the stubborn cuss I had married.

  “So, dish.” I had put BabyJon down for a midnight nap and was lying on our bed, covertly feeling my chest now and again. Nope, no gaping holes. “What happened after I got stabbed?”

  “Oh, the usual. Pandemonium. Violence. Threats. More violence.”

  “You suck at narratives.”

  He bowed his head modestly. I knew I was wasting my breath (so to speak). Sinclair wasn’t about to confess that he’d been scared out of his mind yet again. He liked to play it cool, even with me.

  “Logically, your attempted murder can only help us.”

  “Gee, thanks. So glad to be of service.” I sat up and swung my right leg out to kick him in the shin, which he neatly avoided.

  “Elizabeth, you know exactly what I mean.”

  “Michael’s humiliated and mortified, which the Council will pick up on? Like that?”

  “Yes. Like that.”

  “They must have been pretty surprised when I got up off the floor.”

  He grinned. “Yes, indeed. Once I was able to remove the chair leg from your sternum, you woke up almost instantly—and healed as quickly.”

  “Glad to be of help. That Sara girl was nice. She was about the only one who was nice.”

  He shrugged and eased out of his jacket. “Give them time. Your warped charm will eventually win them over.”

  “Hypocrites. Is it just me, or did Antonia never get a call or a visit from these guys the whole time she was living with us?”

  “It is not just you. But take comfort in the fact that in the last year of her life Antonia found love and happiness with us. Something she apparently could not get out here.”

  That was sad. These yo-yos were supposed to be her family. But nobody had much cared until she was killed. Hell, they hadn’t even known she was in a committed relation
ship with another vampire—Garrett, who had killed himself about four seconds after he’d realized the love of his life was dead.

  It was all too awful to contemplate and for a moment I envied Jessica, lying in a dark bedroom and sleeping through this entire rotten mess.

  But that was no way to be; it certainly didn’t solve anything. We had to move forward—even if it meant leaving some people behind.

  Chapter 29

  Dude,

  It’s really hard to write this. I’m embarrassed and mad at myself. But I’d better get it off my chest, so listen up.

  I can pinpoint the exact moment I realized the shit was hitting the fan. It was the next morning, long after Tina had retired for the day. I was minding my own business, wolfing down a bowl of Special K and reading the latest John Sandford novel, when Laura bopped in.

  She seemed more cheerful than usual, which was nice, because she’d been awfully stressed since Betsy and Sinclair left. And she looked even prettier than usual—and Laura was a beautiful girl—with her buttercup yellow sweater and faded jeans, her blond hair pulled back in its perpetual pony-tail, big eyes bright and sparkling.

  “Morning!” she chirped, sitting across from me. “Did I get any calls?”

  “Uh, no. Are you expecting one?”

  “Sure. I had this great idea and I have you to thank for it. I’ll hopefully find out today if it worked.”

  Dude, I should have followed up right then. But I didn’t. I figured she was involved with some church thing, or was working on a project for school. I’m an ER resident, not a shrink. How was I supposed to know she’d lost her mind?

  Yeah, I know. It’s all just a bunch of crap justification now. I should have been paying closer attention, and I wasn’t. That’s the long and short of it.

  “It’s going to solve a lot of problems,” Laura continued, and I admit I was barely listening to her. “I’ve just been so worried about Betsy ever since she almost died (again) when Antonia got shot.”