Undead and Unwelcome

Chapter 2

“Memos don’t slow down my flight check,” Cooper semi-​scolded in his luscious Irish accent. I managed not to swoon with relief. Also, oooh, European accents, I could listen to them all day. Americans sounded like illiterate bumpkins by comparison. “Gunshots don’t slow down my flight check.”

“Don’t worry. Nobody’s packing.” On this flight.

“I could tell you stories about the carnage and body counts . . .” Cooper’s pale blue eyes went misty with nostalgia while I watched him nervously, then he seemed to shake himself. “But the government made me promise.”

“Well, hoo-​ray for the government.”

Cooper had first worked for Jessica’s dad and, when her folks died (an ugly yet fitting death and a story for another time) and their assets transferred to her, he kept right on flying for her.

And as he’d said, Cooper heard things. Chances were he’d already known I was walking around dead. He was just miffed that Jessica hadn’t told him three years ago.

And you know, he wasn’t revolting looking. Tall—my height—with eyes the color of new denim and a shock of pure white hair that he wore over his shoulders, he was like an ancient hippy, albeit one who had never touched drugs nor alcohol.

He was wearing what Jessica teasingly called his uniform: khaki shorts, sandals, and a T-​shirt that read, JESUS SAVES. HE PASSES TO NOAH. NOAH SCORES! He had tons of weird Jesus shirts. People picked fights if he wore the wrong T-​shirt to the wrong place. Fights Cooper always won, despite his age. It was unreal, yet cool . . . sort of like Cooper himself. Jessica had fired him dozens of times for his own safety, but he always showed up the next day.

“Okay, then.” I stood, forgetting I had been sitting under a bulkhead, and banged my head. “Ow!”

“Luckily being dead hasn’t dulled your natural grace.”

“Shut up, Cooper.”

He smirked and tipped two fingers in a mock salute.

“All right, so I’ll see you in another hour or so. They’re, um, they’re done loading Antonia and my husband’s pulling together some paperwork . . .”

For what, I had no idea—Sinclair had his fingers in a lot of pies, and I wasn’t interested enough to ask. He might answer, and then I’d have to listen. Or look like I was listening, which was harder than it sounded.

“Anyway,” I finished, having almost lost my train of thought (again), “we’ll be back a little later.”

“I’ll be ready, mum.”

Oh, it was mum now? What was I, the queen of—never mind. “And for the zillionth time: Betsy. It’s Betsy.”

“Whatever you say, mum.”

Polite as always, he didn’t turn his back on me while I scuttled out of the plane and down the stairs. My car was parked on the west end of the tarmac of the Minneapolis International Airport; I had no idea what strings Sinclair had pulled so that I could park there. I didn’t want to know, frankly.

Okay, “my car” was a bit of an exaggeration . . . I’d driven one of Sinclair’s to the airport for my little hey-​guess-​what-​I’m-​dead meeting. It was a Lexus hybrid, the only SUV I could drive without feeling like another planet-​polluting asshole. Also, it had seat-​warmers.

There! One unpleasant chore out of the way—Cooper knew the scoop and, even better, hadn’t tried to jam a cross down my throat. He’d agreed to fly us to the Cape, and best of all, hadn’t tried to offer me a washcloth soaked in holy water. Another sneezing fit I so did not need.

Have I mentioned there are some actual perks to being the long-​prophesied vampire queen? I’m so used to bitching about my unwanted crown I tend to overlook the positives.

Holy water, crosses, and stakes can’t hurt me. Nor garlic. Antonia, my dear dead friend, had no idea if bullets would kill me, and refused to risk my life to find out. Which is why she was riding in the cargo hold instead of the plush seats of a private plane.

I shoved Antonia out of my head; it still hurt too much to think about her sacrifice.

And speaking of sacrifices, there was Garrett, Antonia’s late lover, to think about. Once he’d realized that Antonia was dead—in part due to his own cowardice—he’d killed himself right in front of us. Messily.

I didn’t quite dare broach the subject with Sinclair; he felt unrivaled contempt for a lover who would jam someone up and then not face the consequences.

Me, I wasn’t so sure it was that black and white. Garrett was never strong. He was never even brave. But he had loved Antonia and couldn’t live without her. Literally.

Tina and Sinclair had taken care of his body, dragging it off the broken staircase (poor Garrett looked like he’d been caught in a giant set of teeth), cutting off the head, and burying it at Nostro’s old farm (where the Fiends . . . the ones still alive . . . lived).

But that was enough of that for now—Garrett was dead, and I couldn’t change that. But I was going to have a word with my alleged best friend about her irritating, insulting, and idiotic memorandum (memoranda?).

I mean, jeez. Narcissistic? Didn’t she stop to think how I would feel if Cooper read that about me? Not to mention, I wasn’t even cc’d on the thing.

I swear, I didn’t know what had gotten into that girl since I’d cured her cancer and she had to dump her boyfriend because he hated my guts. Frankly, I’ve been having a terrible time this week.

And now rogue memos! It was too much for anyone to expect me to handle, which I would be pointing out to her the minute I saw her.

Self-​centered? Me? Sometimes that girl doesn’t know me at all.