The tablecloth lifted in one spot. A hand reached up—a hand wearing a big sparkly cocktail ring borrowed from Jee—groped, snitched a fistful of carrot sticks off the table, and disappeared under the tablecloth again.
That sharp thing sank into my belly. I wrenched my mind away from the memory of the door opening and this chirpy voice saying, I’m down here.
Beth sent me an apologetic glance. “You must admit, she’s a handful.”
Drowning herself, and kicking the aluminum stepladder at the end of the tunnel. “She is that.”
The tablecloth fluttered as if dogs were wrestling under it.
Then the suite door opened and a hundred seventy-five pounds of anger stomped in.
I’d forgotten Sharon.
Beth saw her too. “I’ll block for you. You get Cricket out from under the table. She wants to yell at me first, anyway. I’m the one who sent her the invitation with the wrong start time on it.”
I shook my head and laughed. Then I streaked over to warn Cricket.
“Oh, poop,” Cricket said when I hauled her out from under the table. “Sorry, kid,” she said, bending to give more carrots to the four-year-old down there. “It’s been fun. Now Bubbe’s gotta run.”
“You don’t have to talk to her yet,” I muttered. “I thought you’d like to know she arrived.”
Cricket sighed. “I guess so.” She peeped around me.
Across the reception suite, Sharon, a thick-set matron of forty-seven with jowls and an important, overloud voice was lecturing a couple of mommy types by the petit-fours table.
Beth muttered, “Keep an eye on her. If Sharon seems to be upsetting Cricket, pour champagne on her if you have to.”
“More champagne. Yes, ma’am,” I said, because speak-of-the-devil had marched over to us.
As I turned toward the big fridge where we were keeping the extra bottles of bubbly, I heard Sharon say, “Are you the one who took my grandmother out of her facility?”
“Are you the one who put her there?” Beth said coolly.
“Who the hell are you—” Sharon began, furious.
Beth cut her off at the knees. “Silence.” She had her hand on Sharon’s wrist. “This is not your party. This is not about you. This is about Mrs. Immerzang. She would like to give something to her whole family, not just to you. Her whole family is here. Conduct yourself with propriety, or you’ll be ejected.”
Boy. Don’t cross Beth.
Sharon sent a glare around the room, as if trying to figure out who could possibly eject her. Then she gave Beth the glare again, with extra rage, and stalked away to where Pog was handing out canapes.
I nodded across the room to Jee, who, refusing under any circumstances to pose as the help, was dressed with an insane amount of taste and bling and pretending to be from the caterer’s office. I tuned my demon bat-ears to eavesdrop. Jee was listening to Cricket’s pierced and purple-haired great-granddaughter talk about roller derby. Without batting an eye, Jee gave a hand signal.
Reg had his champagne bottle wrapped and ready. In his waiter’s tux shirt and bow tie he looked very respectable. He fielded Jee’s signal, nodded, and went to fill Sharon’s glass.
Somebody behind me put his hand on my ass. I reached back and got a handful of his trousers, sent a jolt of succubus juice direct to his junk, and felt him jizz in his pants. The hand on my ass went away. I glanced behind me. It was one of the lawyer twins. He smiled tremulously. Jonah.
I gave him a half smile back. “Nice to see you made it.”
He swallowed. “You look great.” He must have recognized me from our meeting in Lauren’s bar.
I relented, and lowered my voice into a guy register. “Next time, say hi before you grab, and I won’t make you mess your pants. Bathroom,” I added helpfully, pointing.
He turned and bolted for the men’s.
I went back to pouring champagne and eavesdropping on Cricket.
Jee accepted a big shiny card from the great granddaughter, folded it in half, and put it in her clutch. Cricket came up to them. Reg refilled Jee’s glass. I frowned at him across the room, but it would take more than a frown to stop Reg from serving Jee first. I made a mental note to refresh the bottle he was carrying pretty soon. Jee smiled at Cricket and wandered off.
She still hadn’t talked to Sharon. I bit my lip. Was she chickening out?
Cricket looked across the room at me and gave me a big wink. Then she faded back toward the bedroom, which we were using as a staging and dressing room.
Ah. Plan B. This ought to be good.
CRICKET
In the dressing room, Cricket locked the door and leaned against it. She wanted to rub her face, but that would ruin her fancy makeup. The champagne wasn’t working too well. She still felt nervy and warlike. That wouldn’t work with Sharon. The only things that had ever worked were patience and evasiveness. And those not very well, either.
Maybe she could eavesdrop on Sharon and see how other people handled her.
She turned to the mirror.
This was the Cricket she and Amanda had invented together this morning, back at the Lair: only slightly wrinkly, a little slimmer and taller than her old self, her white kinky hair tamed into something ladylike, her hands free of liver spots, standing comfortably in low-heeled pumps. An AARP magazine version of herself, all botox, makeup, and Photoshop.
Nice, but too recognizable.
She needed a better disguise.
First she took off the white bolero. Then, carefully, without smearing her makeup, she ran her fingertips over her hair, her face, her throat, her arms, using one hand and then the other. She reached down to her ankles and smoothed her hands over her legs, her eyes squeezed shut, thinking, stretch taller, but not too much.
She should picture who she wanted to look like. Back in the Lair she’d assumed a dozen disguises. Now, with Sharon waiting in the other room like a throbbing steamroller, she choked. Who should she be? Someone bland. Someone so conventional that she would be invisible.
In a panic, she chose to copy the hotel catering lady. Champagne-colored hair and skin, watery blue eyes, unremarkable makeup. Bland, bland, bland.
When she opened her eyes, she saw the catering lady in the mirror. Kind-of. Well, kind-of was good. She didn’t want to startle the poor woman, if she happened to stick her head into the room to make sure everything was going okay.
There. She ran her hand over her hair, tinting it with the power of her mind alone, straightening it, tweaking the cut and curl until it was banker’s-wife boring.
Through the door, the party hummed quietly.
Cricket winked at her reflection. Come on, super-spy!
There was Sharon by the window, scolding her daughter. Cricket moved up behind Sharon and watched Lauren’s vivid face in her bruised-looking Goth makeup and purple hair.
“What do you think you’re wearing?” Sharon was really letting her have it. “That dress is in rags. And those boots!”
“Hey, chill, Mom. At least it’s black.” Lauren sucked down champagne. Her lips left black lip-prints on the glass. Her tattoos showed through the torn black lace of her dress at the sleeves, collarbone, and hemline. She had a stud in her nose, a stud in her tongue, and a ring through her pretty upper lip.
“This isn’t a funeral,” Sharon hissed. “You look disgraceful. It’s disrespectful to your great-grandmother.”
Cricket’s hackles went up. She moved around to stand behind Lauren, not looking directly at Sharon but making it clear she could hear what was being said. Sometimes Sharon dialed it back in front of company.
That backfired right away. Sharon zeroed in on Cricket. “And who told you that you could bring a friend? This is a private reception for family.”
Cricket shrank back, turning toward the window as if to say, Hey, I’m not listening, don’t look at me. She caught sight of herself reflected there and realized that she’d unconsciously imitated Lauren. Her champagne-colored hair now had a purple streak in it
, and a tattoo depicting an green-and-gray octopus tentacle curled up her collarbone, showing over the neckline of her beige beaded dress. She put a finger up to touch it, staring at her reflection.
Sharon abandoned her to zero back in on Lauren. “I don’t think you appreciate how much money your great-grandmother spent on this party.”
Lauren shrugged. “Hey, I’m her favorite descendent. She’ll cut me some slack.”
Sharon leaned closer and opened her mouth. Her venomous expression was reflected in the window.
“Of course she will,” Cricket blurted.
Lauren jumped.
Sharon whirled, looking behind her.
“You only wish it was her funeral,” Cricket added. Then she realized she was speaking in her own voice.
Lauren turned and gave her a shocked look.
Sharon wasn’t even paying attention. She strode away, grimly scanning the guests behind Cricket. “Bubbe?” She stomped to the bedroom door.
Lauren grabbed Cricket’s arm and towed her away. “That is you!” She hissed, “What are you doing? How—what—you’ve got to tell me everything!”
Cricket peered past Lauren’s shoulder to see Sharon dive into the bedroom. “Whew.” She ran her hands over her face and became herself again. Just for the heck of it, she fluffed her hair with her hands until it was its old unruly white puffball. Take that, Sharon.
“Omigod, Big Squeak. What the fuck?” Lauren hugged Cricket, and the afternoon got a lot better.
Cricket hugged her back. “Little Squeak, I’m so glad you came!”
“What is going on? How did you do that? You have to tell me!”
“I will, I will, but not until the party’s over.” Cricket beamed at Lauren, thinking how much she loved her, and what a ghastly mess she looked in her Goth makeup and dress, and how she wouldn’t change the kid for anything. She’d been such a nervous, unhappy little boy. What a joyous girl she made! “Thanks for coming to my funeral.”
“Like, no shit. I mean, swanky, but morbid much?” Lauren waved at the room with her champagne glass. “Lilies and photos and tasteful music.”
The bedroom door opened. Cricket swung around so that her back was to it. In the reflecting window, she watched Sharon march out and stand, glaring around the room.
“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded. “I’m in the belly of the shark.”
Lauren laughed with her, and Cricket felt quite a bit better.
She smiled into the kid’s face, all over shiny piercey things. “You’re pretty swanky yourself, Miss.” Lauren looked like one of those kids who hung out on the corner of Belmont and Clark Streets, dressed like it was Halloween all year around.
“Wore my shiniest combat boots for you.” Lauren gave her a shrewd look. “Are you having fun?”
“Today? No. Today sucks. Since I left that joint? I’m having a blast.”
Lauren heaved a sigh. “Okay then.” She smiled at Cricket with peace and satisfaction in her eyes, and Cricket felt grateful that she’d gone through with this party after all.
Then Lauren glanced over Cricket’s shoulder and her eyes changed. Cricket’s gratitude faltered. “Uh-oh, incoming.”
“There you are, Bubbe,” Sharon said briskly, planting herself beside and a little in front of her daughter. “Lawrence, find me some crab cakes.” No finesse, Sharon.
Lauren hadn’t budged. She narrowed her eyes. Her mouth was a grim line.
Cricket gave her a smile. “Get me some crabcakes too, Little Squeak?” More softly she added, “I got this.”
Sharon actually stepped in front of Lauren as if she didn’t exist, as if this was high school and she could use bad manners like a weapon against her own child.
Enough, Cricket thought. She met Sharon’s eyes willingly for the first time in years.
Seen through these demon eyes, Sharon looked fourteen, mulish and resentful.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sharon demanded.
“I’m going around the world,” Cricket said, grateful to Beth yet again for giving her a script. “I’d rather say goodbye to everybody now than get beri-beri in the jungle somewhere and regret not doing it.”
Sharon was turning purple. “Bubbe, you can’t do this. What will happen to you out there with no doctors?”
“Oh, c’mon. These cruise ships are like floating Loriston Homes. Doctors they got.” Cricket laid a hand on Sharon’s arm and sent a jolt of what she hoped was comforting energy into her.
Sharon’s color started to fade.
“Looky, cookie. The Loriston Home was your idea. Of course you like it. But you don’t have to live there.” She sent her another dose of comfort, and Sharon’s eyes went shiny. Cricket said tenderly, “You should live so long as me and still be in control of your life. Cross your fingers and hope. You got Alban’s moxie and maybe some of my genes too. Who knows, I might still be around when you’re ninety-eight.”
Cricket smiled at that thought, and smiled wider when she imagined what Sharon would think if she ever saw the kitchen at the Lair, with its video gaming stations and porn posters and refrigerators full of dope and alcohol. She really wished Sharon was a happier person. Hm. Maybe she could send that message, too.
She patted her granddaughter on the chest this time. Love you, cookie. Be happy.
“I only wanted what’s best for you,” Sharon said. Her lower lip trembled. “Nobody else in this family will do those things. I got stuck with being the mean person who tells you what none of them want to have to say.” She heaved a sigh and sat down with a bump on a nearby sofa.
Cricket sat down next to her and took her hand. “Cookie, are you okay?” In a sudden burst of sympathy, she forgot to do her manipulative succubus-juju-sending thing.
Sharon dissolved. “I’m always the one who has to give the bad news. Mom never wanted to know when her new boyfriend was a lush or two-timing her or stealing from her purse. Lawrence didn’t want to know how much trouble he’d get into if he came out of the closet. You didn’t want to know you were—” She stopped, and put her hand over her mouth and gave a sob into it, glaring reproachfully at Cricket with swimming eyes.
“Too old to break dance on the front steps of the Field Museum? Oh, cookie,” Cricket said remorsefully. She handed Sharon her paper napkin.
Sharon blew her nose on the napkin. “I hate saying those things. It makes me so angry when I’m the one who has to say them.”
“Is that why you’re always mad? Oh, cookie.” Cricket put her arm around her large descendent and hugged. She gathered her succubus mojo again. This time she thought it through. She said slowly and carefully, “You don’t have to worry about me ever again. Have some fun. You deserve it. I think you’ve worked hard enough, after all this taking care of people. It’s your turn now.”
It took Sharon a while to stop crying, but she relaxed, and her tight, angry face got smoother and brighter and even a little younger.
Looking over her shoulder, Cricket caught her good lawyer grandson’s eye and beckoned. When he came up, she took him by the hand, so she could send her love into both him and Sharon at the same time. “Jonah, dance with your cousin. She’s starting her own vacation now.”
Sharon blew her nose again and got up. Jonah led her away. “Bubbe always makes me feel good,” he said to her, his voice fading into the hubbub of the party.
Amanda appeared at Cricket’s side. “You okay?”
Cricket drew a long breath and looked up into Amanda’s beautiful young face. “Never better.”
“Big Squeak?” Speak of the Goth girl. “You okay? I thought Mom was gonna stroke out.”
“You saw your mom’s ass get kicked by your great-grandma,” Amanda said.
The kid’s eyes went round. “Wow. You really?”
Cricket smiled and gave a sniff. “I really. But with love.” She turned and surveyed her assembled relatives. “Time to end the party.”
“But—” Lauren looked around. Her voice lowered. “You’re gonna explain a
ll this to me, right?” She broke off to shake her head with a wondering look at Cricket.
“Yup. All of it. After the party, schviti.”
Across the room, Reg poured the last of the champagne for Jee and himself, and they toasted her.
Beth gave Cricket a knew-you-could-do-it smile. She raised her voice and tinked on Cricket’s glass with her pen. “Can we have a little dance music before we close the bar and send everyone home?”
Now they began to line up to hug Cricket, grandkids and step-grandkids and divorced step-great-grandkids’ cousins. She’d learned something dealing with Sharon. She knew now that she could send her message directly to them, without messing around with words, and they’d get it, they had to get it. For each one, she loaded up her hug with juju and with each hug she told them, silently, I’ll be okay, I love you, be comforted. “Thanks for coming,” she said aloud each time. “Go. Dance. Go home. Mazel tov, cookie.”
In each face, she saw that they wanted to give her something that she’d been afraid to ask for—something that maybe they didn’t know how to give in words. Today, Cricket felt like the master of wordless truths. Even as she sent them her succubus mojo loaded with her reassuring message, she saw the silent message in their eyes. I respect your choice, and I hope you have the time of your life on this cruise, and I hope the end is better than we all feared it would be at the Loriston Home, and I love you the way you are. If she hadn’t been so full of champagne, she’d have choked up.
People went and danced, and then they went home.
“You are totally the shit, Big Squeak,” Lauren said, the last in line for a hug. She crooked her elbow. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
Coed Demon Sluts: Omnibus: Coed Demon Sluts: books 1-5 Page 75