Undead and Uneasy

Chapter 4

I stared at the poster-​sized picture of Antonia Taylor, the Ant, which was grinning at me. Right at me. I swear, the eyes in her picture followed me whenever I moved. It was on an easel, beside my dad's picture.

I recognized my dad's pic—it had been taken by the Minneapolis Chamber of Commerce when he and the Ant won some useless award that he bought her. The Ant's photo was from Glamour Shots. You know the kind: smokey-​eyed, with long fingernails and teased hair.

“—truly found happiness in their later years—" Barf I didn't know whether to just roll my eyes or to laugh. Given the circumstances, I did neither.

Sinclair had disappeared a day after Tina left the country. I assumed he was still sulking about our constant bickering and had decided to avoid the thing that was Bridezilla. And in truth, I was a little glad to get a break myself. I wanted to love the bum, not fantasize about staking him. And I missed our lovemaking. Our. . . everything. I was just as sorry he was gone as I was relieved.

Not to mention, I was too proud to call his cell and tell him what had happened to my dad and his wife. That would be like asking him for help. He'd be back on his own, without me calling him, the fuckhead. Any day now. Any minute.

There weren't any windows in the room, which was a shame as it was a gorgeous summer day in Minnesota, the kind of day that makes you forget all about winter. Big, fluffy marshmallow clouds and a beautiful blue sky, more suited to picnicking than funerals.

It was kind of weird. If the occasion called for a double funeral, wouldn't it also call for thunderstorms? The day I died was cloudy and spitting snow.

Plus I'd gotten fired. And my birthday party had been canceled. It had all been properly disastrous.

“—truly a tragedy we mortals cannot comprehend—”

At last, the minister had gotten something right. Not only could I not comprehend it, I couldn't shake the feeling it was a sick practical joke. That the Ant was using her fake funeral as an excuse to break into my house and steal my shoes. Again. That Dad was on the links, chortling over the good one he'd put over on us. Not dead in a stupid, senseless car accident. Dad had stomped on the accelerator instead of the brake and plowed into the back of a parked garbage truck. Immovable force meets crunchable object. Finis for Dad and the Ant.

The other Antonia I knew, a pseudo-​werewolf, had vanished with her mate, George—er, Garrett, the day after Sinclair had left. That didn't surprise me. Although Antonia couldn't turn into a wolf during the full moon (causing ridicule among her pack, and eventually driving her to us), she was still a werewolf bred and born, and had a werewolf's natural need to roam.

She'd been complaining of splitting headaches right before she left (rather than change, she could see the future, but it wasn't always clear, and the visions weren't always welcome). She'd been, if possible, bitchier than usual, while entirely close-​mouthed about what might really be bothering her. Garrett was the only one who could stand her when she was like this.

A word about Garrett. Nostro, the old vampire king—the one Sinclair and I had killed—had liked to starve newly risen vampires. And when that happened, they turned feral. Worse than feral. . . animals— scrambling about on all fours and never showering or anything. They were like rabid, flesh-​eating pit bulls. Two-​hundred-​pound, rabid, flesh-​eating pit bulls.

Laura and Sinclair and Tina had insisted I stake the lot of them. I'd refused—they were victims and couldn't help their unholy craving for human flesh. And I'd been vindicated, I think. By drinking my blood (yurrgh!), or my sister's blood (better, but still yucky), Garrett (known back then as George) had recovered his humanity. Even better, he had become capable of love with Antonia.

So Garrett seemed fine now. But I didn't know enough about Fiends, or vampires (shit, I'd only been one for little more than a year) to try another experiment, and so a cute loyal vamp named Alice cared for the other Fiends, and Antonia and Garrett kept each other out of my hair.

Maybe someday soon, I'd ask Laura if she'd let another Fiend suck her blood, but now was definitely not the time.

All the cars driving by outside (stupid Vamp hearing!) were distracting me from the insipid service preached by a man who clearly had never met my dad or his second wife.

Once again I was struck by the fact that, no matter what rotten thing happened, no matter how earth-​shaking events became, life (and undeath) went on. People still drove to and from work. Drove to the movies. Drove to doctors, airports, schools. Hopefully none of them were getting the accelerator mixed up with the brake.

I stifled a sneeze against the overwhelming scent of too many flowers (Chrysanthemums, ugh! Not to mention, the Ant hated 'em), embalming fluid (from one of the back rooms, not Dad and the Ant), and too much aftershave.

If nobody else was going to say it, I would: being a vampire was not all it was cracked up to be. Even though it was 7:00 p.m., I had sunglasses on for multiple reasons. One, because the lights, dim as they were, made me squint. Two, if I caught the gaze of an unmarried man, or an unhappily married man, he'd more than likely slobber all over me until I coldcocked him. Stupid vampire mojo.

Most annoying, one of my few blood relatives (I had three: my mother, my ailing grandfather, and my half sister), Laura, wasn't there either. She hadn't known my father at all, had only recently met her birth mother, the Ant (the devil had possessed the Ant long enough to get her pregnant and then decided childbirth was worse than hell), and so busied herself with interesting logistics like the wake and the burial arrangements.

Cathie the ghost had also disappeared—-just for a while, she told me nervously. Not to heaven, or wherever spirits vamoosed to. Her whole life she'd never been on a plane, never left the state of Minnesota. So she had decided to see the world, and why not? It wasn't like she needed a passport. And she knew she was welcome back here anytime.

“—perhaps this is the Lord's way of telling us to get yearly driver's exams over the age of fifty—”

I smoothed my black Versace suit and peeped down at my black Prada pumps. Both very sensible, very dignified, the former was a gift from Sinclair, the latter a Christmas present from Jessica four years ago. If you get the good stuff and take care of it, it'll last forever.

Just thinking of Jessica made me want to cry— which made me feel like shit. I was sitting through a double funeral totally dry-​eyed, but the thought of my cancer-​riddled best friend was enough to make me sob. Thank goodness Marc, an MD for a Minneapolis emergency ward, was taking care of her.

I mean, had been taking care of her. Once he made sure Jessica was squared away, Marc had disappeared, too. That was more alarming than anything else, funerals included: Marc Spangler did not have a life. He didn't date. He didn't sport fuck. His life was the hospital and hanging around vampires.

I'd been calling his cell for days and kept getting voice mail or, worse, no signal at all. It was like he'd gone to Mars.

“—the comfort of many years of mutual love and affection—”

Oh, fucking blow me. Mutual credit lines and many years of the Ant seducing my dad and then begging for a fur coat. He'd married her for lust, and she'd married him for his money And on and on and on, and never mind the cost to my mother's heart, or soul, and never mind that it had taken Mom the better part of a decade to pick up the pieces.

And thinking about the good Dr. Taylor (doctorate in history, specialty: the Civil War; subspecialty: the Battle at Antietam), my mom wasn't here, either. I knew she and my dad hadn't been on good terms for years, and I knew she cordially loathed the Ant (and believe me, the feeling was sooo mutual), but I thought she might come so I'd have a hand to hold.

Her reply to an invitation to the funeral was to quirk a white eyebrow and throw some Kehlog Albren my way: “ 'Sometimes the best of friends can't attend each other's funerals.' And your father and I were not the best of friends, dear, to say the least.”

In other words: Nuts to you, sugar bear.

But she was helping in her own way, taking care of Babyjon. I'd go see them after. Only Babyjon's sweet powder smell and toothless (well, semitoothless; he had three by now), drooly smile could cheer me up right now.

I sighed, thinking of the empty mansion waiting for me. Even my cat, Giselle, had gone on walkabout. Normally I didn't care. Or notice. But it was scary staying in the big place by myself. I wished Sinclair would come home. I wished I wasn't still so mad at him I wouldn't call him. Most of all, I wished—

“The interment will be at Carlson Memorial Cemetery,” the minister was saying. “For those of you who wish to follow the deceased, please put on your headlights.”

—that this was over.

I stood and smoothed my black dress, checked my black pumps and matching hose. Perfect, from head to toe. I looked exactly like a smartly dressed, yet grief-​stricken, daughter. I wasn't going to follow my dead lather to Carlson Memorial, though, and never mind appearances. My headstone was there, too.

I followed the mourners out, thinking I was the last, only to stop and wheel around at a whispered, “Your Majesty?”

I recognized her at once. Any vampire would. I was even supposed to be afraid of her (every vampire was). Except I wasn't. “Do not, do not blow my cover,” I hissed to Marjorie, who looked like a librarian (she was) but was also an eight-​hundred-​year-​old vampire.

She was dressed in sensible brown shoes (blech), a navy blue skirt, and a ruffled cream blouse. Her brown hair was streaked with gray, and her pale face was played up with just the right amount of makeup. “Forgive my intrusion, Majesty.”

“What are you doing at a funeral home, anyway? There's probably a whole back room full of Bibles in this place.”

Marjorie grimaced at “Bibles,” but readily answered. “I read about the accident in the paper and came to pay my respects, Majesty. I regret the deaths of your father and mother.”

“She was not my mother,” I corrected out of years of habit. “But thanks. That's why you're lurking? To pay your respects?”

“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.