Undead and Uneasy

by Mara

  "Well, I could hardly sit through the service."

  I almost giggled at the image of ancient Marjorie, probably the oldest vamp on the planet, cowering in the vestibule with both hands clamped over her ears, lest she hear a stray "Jesus" or "the Lord works in mysterious ways."

  I, if I may be immodest for a brief moment, could hear any religious epithet, prayer, or Christmas carol. It was a perk of being the vampire queen.

  "If you need anything, you will please call on me," she insisted.

  Oh, sure, Marjorie. I'd love to go to the warehouse district and hang around in the vamp library, checking out thousand-year-old dusty tomes and being more depressed than I already am. I avoided that place like most vamps avoided churches. Even in life, I'd never been a fan of libraries.

  Luckily, Marjorie took care of all that tedious stuff for Sinclair and me. And even more luckily, she had zero interest in grabbing power. She'd lived through three or four kings (I think . . . I was vague on bloodsucker history) and had been content to putter among her stacks while they wreaked their reigns of terror. She had outlasted them all. I wondered idly if she would outlast me and Sinclair. Would she even remember us, two thousand years from now?

  As stiff as she was, I had to admit it was nice to see her. At least somebody had bothered to show up, even if it was a vampire.

  "Are you going to the cemetery?"

  And see my own grave again? Not a chance in hell. But all I said out loud was, "There's nothing for me there."

  Marjorie seemed to understand and bowed slightly as I turned on my (elegant) heel and left.

  Chapter 5

  I had heard the car turn in the drive, of course (sometimes I could hear a cricket from a mile away), but took my time walking to the door and listening to the increasingly frantic hammering.

  Finally, after growing weary of my passive aggressiveness, I opened my front door and immediately went for the kill. "Thanks for all the support at the funeral, Mom. Really helpful. Why, with you there I didn't feel like an orphan or anything! Having a shoulder to lean on and all was such a comfort."

  My mother brushed by me, BabyCrap™ (an established property of Babyjon™) in tow. She smelled like burped up milk. She was wearing a blue sweater (in summertime!) and plum-colored slacks, with black flats. Her mop of curls was even more a mess than usual.

  "By the way," I said cheerfully, "you look like dried up hell."

  She ignored that. "A funeral service is no place for an infant," she panted, struggling to manage all the paraphernalia. It was amazing . . . the kid wasn't even a year old, and he had more possessions than I did.

  Mom thrust Babyjon at me and I bounced him in my arms, then kissed the top of his head. I might have been pissed at her, but damn, I was glad to see him.

  "You missed a helluva party," I said dryly.

  "No doubt." Mom puffed white curls off her forehead. "Your father was all about parties. That's why he was foolish enough to ingest a magnum of champagne and then go joy riding into the back of a garbage truck with your stepmother."

  Hey, they needed a break from all the selfless charity work. I paused, gauged what I was thinking, and then shelved it. Nope. Too soon for jokes. They'd only been in their graves for half an hour. Maybe by tomorrow . . .

  "How are you holding up, dear?"

  "Like you care!"

  She scowled at me, and I almost giggled. Hadn't I seen that scowl enough times in my own mirror? But I remained a stone. "You've had a difficult day . . ."

  "And you'd know this how?"

  "But my day hasn't exactly been a day at the zoo, either. So answer my question, young lady, or you'll find you're not too big to spank." This was laughable, since I could break my mom's arm by breathing on it.

  "Well?"

  "I forgot the question," I admitted.

  "How was the funeral?"

  "Besides my entire support system, present company included, abandoning me in my most dire time of need?"

  "I think your death was your most dire time of need," she corrected me. "And the only ones who abandoned you then are underground now."

  This was true, but I was in no mood for logic. "And you didn't even say good-bye. I know you didn't like them, but Jesus!"

  And why were we screaming at each other in the foyer? Maybe I was still too mad to make nicey-nice hostess, even to Mom, whom I usually adored. How amid I not adore someone who welcomed her daughter back from the dead with open arms? "Someone had to watch your son," she replied sharply. "And it's not as though you have no friends. Where is everybody, anyway?" "The question of the day," I muttered. No way was I telling her Sinclair and I were fighting—she liked him, if possible, more than she liked me. And she'd worry herself sick about Jessica. And she didn't know Marc or Laura that well, or the others at all.

  Then the full impact of her words hit me like a hammer upside the head. "Someone had to watch my what?”

  “ Jon.”

  "What?"

  She pointed at my half brother, as if I'd forgotten I was holding him in my arms. In fact, I had. "Your son. The reading of the will? Yesterday? Remember?"

  "You know full well I wasn't there. My nails were ,1 mess, and it's not like the Ant was going to let Dad leave me a damned thing. So I gave myself a manicure in Wine Cordial."

  My mother sighed, the way she used to sigh when I told her my middle school term project was due later in the morning, and I hadn't even started yet. "In the event of their deaths, you're his legal guardian. They're dead. So guess what?"

  "But—but—" Babyjon cooed and wriggled and looked far too happy with the circumstances. I couldn't decide whether to be thrilled or appalled. I settled on appalled. "But I didn't want a baby like this."

  "Like what?"

  "Like—you know. Via the vehicle of death."

  Mom frowned. "What was that again?"

  "I mean, I wanted my own baby. Mine and Sinclair's baby."

  "Well, you've got this one," she said, completely unmoved by my panic.

  "But—"

  "And you certainly have the means to bring him up properly."

  "But—"

  "Although I wonder . . . will he get his days and nights confused, living with you two as parents?"

  "That's the burning question on your mind? Because I can think of a few dozen other slightly more pressing ones!"

  "Dear, don't scream. My hearing is fine."

  "I'm not ready!"

  "You're still screaming. And no one ever is, dear." She coughed. "Take it from me."

  "I can't do it!"

  "We all say that in the beginning."

  "But I really really can't!"

  "We all say that, too. Well, the first twenty years, anyway."

  I thrust him toward her, like I was offering her a platter of hors d'ouevres. "You take him!"

  "My dear, I am almost sixty years old."

  "Sixty years young," I offered wildly.

  Mom shot me a black look. "My child-rearing days .ire over. You, on the other hand, are eternally young, have a support system, a rich best friend, a fine soon-to-be-husband, legal guardianship, and a blood tie."

  "And on that basis I'm the new mom?"

  "Congratulations," she said, pushing the baby back toward my face. His great, blue googley eyes widened at me, as his mouth formed a drool-tinged O. "It's a boy. And now, I have to go."

  "You're leaving?" I nearly shrieked.

  "I'm supposed to visit your grandfather in the hospice this afternoon. You remember your grandfather, dear? Lest you accuse others of neglect."

  "I can't believe you're leaving me like this! I have three words for you, Mother—state-funded nursing home. Do you hear me? STATE-FUNDED NURSING HOME!!!" I yelled after her, just as Babyjon yarked milk all over my beautiful black designer suit.

  Chapter 6

  The kitchen phone rang, and I ran toward it, stopping to plop Babyjon in his port-a-crib (a subsidiary of BabyCrap™) on the way, where he promptly flopped over on his back and went
to sleep. Yeah, well, dead parents were exhausting for everybody.

  I gave thanks for all the junk we'd bought when he'd been born, hoping to have occasional chances to babysit. Babysit, not raise him to adulthood! But because of my precautions, we had diapers, cribs, formula, bottles, baby blankets, and onesies up the wazoo.

  It was funny, the Ant had only warmed up to nu when she saw how much Babyjon liked me. As .1 newborn, he screamed almost constantly from colic (or perhaps rage at the decor of his nursery) and only shut up when I held him. Once the Ant saw that, I was the number one babysitter.

  Sinclair had not been pleased. But I wasn't going to think about Sinclair, except how much I was about to yell at him when I got him on the phone.

  The thought of surprising Sinclair with this kid, I have to admit, gave me a certain perverse pleasure. It salved the terror I felt at the sudden responsibility.

  I skidded across the floor and snatched the phone in the middle of the sixth ring. "Hello? Sinclair? You bum! Where are you? Hello?"

  "—can't—cell—''

  "Who is this?"

  "—too far—can't—hear"

  I could barely make out the words through the thick static. "Who! Is! This!"

  "—worry—message—country^"

  "Marc? Is that you?"

  "—no other way—don't—okay—"

  "Tina?"

  "—back—time—"

  "Dad? If you're calling from beyond the grave, I'm

  ¦nig to be very upset," I threatened. There wasn't even a click. Just a dead line.

  I sat down at the table, deliberately forgetting about ill the times the bunch of us had sat around making smoothies or inventing absurd drinks (e.g., The Queen Betsy: one ounce amaretto, two ounces orange juice, three ounces cranberry juice, seven ounces of champagne, and let me tell you, it was heaven in a martini glass).

  I thought: Everybody's gone. Everybody.

  I thought: How could they do this to me?

  Okay, Jessica had an excuse. Battling cancer via chemo was a dandy way to get out of social obligations. And Detective Berry—well, I didn't especially want him around. He had known, once upon a time, that I had died and come back to life. I had drunk his blood, once upon a time, and it had gone badly. Sinclair had fixed it by making Nick forget. The last thing I needed was for him to be at the same funeral home he'd come to two Aprils ago for my funeral.

  No, it was good for Nick to be at Jessica's side when he wasn't foiling killers and petty thieves.

  Same with Tina. When she left to check on the European vampires, she had no idea this was going to happen. No, I couldn't blame her, either.

  But Marc? He of all people didn't have a life, and he picks now to disappear? To not call, or return calls?

  Mom? (Like she couldn't have gotten someone else to watch Babyjon?)

  Sinclair? The guy who knew friggin' everything didn't show up for the double funeral?

  Laura? She rebelled against her mom, the devil, by being the most churchgoing, God-fearing person you ever saw (when she wasn't killing serial killers or beating the shit out of vampires), but she couldn't be bothered to go to a family funeral?

  Cathie the ghost, on a fucking world tour?

  Antonia? Garrett? Okay, I hadn't known them very long, but they did live in my (Jessica's) house rent-free. I'd taken her in when her Pack 'wanted nothing to do with her. When the other werewolves were scared shitless of her. And Garrett? I'd saved him from staking multiple times. But they took off on me, too.

  What the fuck excuse did any of them have? They were supposed to be my friends, my fiancé, my family, my roommates. So why was I rattling around in this big-ass mansion by myself? Except for Babyjon, snoring in the corner? Shit, nobody even sent me flowers! It wasn't fair. And don't tell me life isn't fair, either. Like a vampire doesn't know that?

  Chapter 7

  “Oh, Your Majesty!" Tina gasped, sounding tinny and distressed on the other end of the line. "I'm so dreadfully sorry! My deepest condolences. Oh, your poor parents! Your poor family! I remember when I lost mine, and it's still as fresh as it was—"

  "Me time, Tina, got it?"

  "Majesty, how may I serve?"

  I puffed a sigh of relief. Some things, in this last crazy week, hadn't changed. Tina had always treated me like a queen, and anyone Sinclair loved, she served with everything she had. In fact, she'd had a bit of a crush on me when we first met, until I took care of the little misunderstanding ("I'm straight as a ruler, honey") and since then our relationship had been kind i complicated: sovereign/servant/friend/assistant. She was still overseas, but at least she was answering her linking phone.

  "How is the king taking it?"

  "That's just it. He's not."

  "I am sure he will comfort you in his own way," she soothed. "You know as well as I that a taciturn man can be difficult even during the—"

  "Tina, did you forget English when you went to Trance? He's not taking it because he's gone. Vamoosed. Poof. Buh-bye."

  "But—where?"

  "Like / know? We haven't, um, been getting along lately, and he went off a bit ago—"

  "And you've been too proud to call him."

  I said nothing. Nothing!

  "Majesty? Are you still on the line?"

  "You know Goddamned well I am," I snapped, taking evil pleasure in her groan at the G-word.

  "I will call him," she said, sounding cheered to have something to do. "I will request he come to your side at once. Whatever . . . difficulties you two are having, surely deaths in the family will supersede other considerations."

  "They'd better, if he ever wants to get laid anytime in the next five hundred years," I threatened, but felt better. Tina was here for me (sort of) and on the case. She wouldn't be trapped in France forever.

  Sinclair would turn up. Marc would reappear from whatever dimension he had slipped into. Antonia would get over her snit-fit and come home, dragging Garrett behind her on a leash. Jessica's chemo would triumph over the cancer, and she'd sprint home, bossing us around as was her wont. My life (such as it was) would be normal again.

  "How is everyone else taking it?"

  "Well, that's the thing." I perched on the counter, got comfy, and explained where everyone was. Or where I thought they were, anyway.

  Afterward there was a long, awkward silence on Tina's end, which I broke with a faux-cheerful, "Weird, huh?"

  "Rat fuck," Tina muttered, and I nearly toppled off the counter. Tina, ancient bloodsucking thing that she was (she'd made Sinclair, and he was, like, seventy!), had the manners of an Elizabethan lady and almost never swore. She was perfectly proper at all nines.

  "Mother fuck," she continued. "Conspirational bastard shitstains."

  "Uh, Tina, I think someone else just got on the line—

  "They're all gone? All of them?"

  "Duh, that's what I just—"

  "For how long?"

  I looked at my watch, which was stupid, as it didn't show the date. "Almost a week now."

  "I'm calling the king."

  "Right, I got that the first time. Fine, call him, but he'd better not show up without flowers. And possibly diamonds. Or some Beverly Feldmans! Yeah, the red and gold flats would be perfect—"

  "My queen, you will not leave that house. You will—"

  "Huh? What are you talking about?" Long pause. "Tina?"

  Nothing. Dead line. Again.

  I shrugged and hung up the phone. If the French couldn't get their act together—ever—to win a war, how could they be expected to keep the phone lines open?

  A mystery for another day. For now I had to figure out a feeding schedule for my new (groan) son, visit Jess (she'd want all the gory funeral details), and leave yet another message for Marc. A busy evening, and not even nine o'clock yet.

  Chapter 8

  “You look like hot death," I informed my best friend cheerfully.

  "Go to hell," she snapped back, then coughed. Her normally gorgeous dark skin was more grayish
than ebony, and her eyes were bloodshot. But she sounded a helluva lot better than she did three days ago. They'd finally quit the chemo, so she could get better.

  The horrible thing about chemotherapy, of course, is that it is poison, working by killing both cancerous and normal cells. Jessica said the cancer didn't bug her hardly at all, except for making her tired. It was the cure that fucked her up severely: vomiting, constant nausea, weight loss (and if anyone on the planet didn't need to lose weight, it was scrawny Jess). How fucked up was that, I ask you? In a hundred years, doctors will be laughing their asses off at how we, the century-old savages, "cured" cancer. I mean, why not just break out the leeches?