Dead and Loving It (17 page)

O
kay, so here's your room while you want to stay with us, and the bathroom's right here…” The queen stepped back out through the doorway, pointed to her left, and then stepped back into the room, a largish bedroom with green and gold–flecked wallpaper. Antonia liked it at once; the walls were the color of the forest in mid-afternoon. “Sorry it's not attached, but it's your own private bathroom so you won't have to share it with anybody. And, uh, I guess that's it. Agh!”

Antonia spun around. Garrett had followed them up. “That's going to get real fucking annoying,” she warned him.

He smiled at her in response.

“Bad George! How many times do I have to tell you not to creep around like that? You'll give everybody heart attacks. Bad, bad Fiend!”

“Why are you talking to him like a dog that pissed on the rug?” she demanded.

“Uh…” Betsy (the queen…har!) looked flustered. “You're right, I'm sorry. It's just that we're so used to him being more like an animal than a person. Up until a couple months ago, he never talked at all. Not a single word, nothing. Heck, he didn't even walk! Then he said something—”

“What?”

“‘Red, please.' He's into crafts. Long story. Actually, it's a short story: He likes to knit and crochet, and he was out of yarn. So anyway, he says this, right, and we all freak out. Right? Then, nothing. Then you show up, and you're all, hidey ho, how's it hanging, Garrett? And he freaks out and
jumps
you! You gotta understand, in addition to not talking, he's never done that before, either, unless he was bringing down prey or protecting me. He's like a lion with a gazelle when it comes to rapists. I dunno, it's weird. Anyway—”

“Not having to take a breath,” Antonia commented, “must come in really handy for you.”

“Like you wouldn't believe. Anyway, you can understand why we're all a little freaked out.”

“Sure, I guess.” She was still mystified. At home, when a stranger showed up, you let them stay as long as they liked, no questions asked. She reminded herself that vampires and monkeys were different. Duh. And Garrett, even for a vampire, was the most different of all. Interesting.

“Antonia,” Garrett said. They both waited, but that was apparently all he had on his mind. She took another look at him. Brought down rapists, did he? Not much of a talker?

Mmmmm.

“You've got great hair,” she told him. “A girl could fall in love.”

He smiled at her again.

“Agh, don't
do
that,” Betsy said. “I swear, his grin is as creepy as yours.”

“He's got a nice smile,” Antonia said defensively. “It's just right: friendly, but not aggressive.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Well, I'll let you get settled, and—”

“I don't need to get settled. I need to help you. What are you doing now?”

Betsy looked startled. “Now now?”

“Yeah, now now. Because I'm stuck to you like a squashed bug until—until whenever.”

She shrugged. “You know, a year ago, this would have seemed incredibly bizarre to me, but no longer. Now I take it all in stride, bay-bee! You want to help? Come on. Not you, Geor—Garrett. You'll just make a mess of things.”

Garrett ignored her, which Antonia thought was just adorable.

O
h no no no,” Antonia groaned. “Isn't there a bullet I can take for you or a knife in the ribs or something?”

“Hey, you wanted to help, so you're helping.”

“I don't think so,” Jessica said, looking her up and down critically. “The blue makes her look washed out. Which, we can all agree, is not a problem I myself have. But it's not so good on your model.”

“Go back and change into the yellow one,” Betsy said.

“Fuck this shit,” Antonia snapped. “I seriously doubt this is what the gods or whoever had in mind when they sent me a vision of helping you.”

“Sez you. Go change.”

She stomped back into the small sitting room, ripped the ice blue bridesmaid gown off, and struggled into the piss-yellow one. This,
this
was her punishment for every bad thought, word, and deed she had ever thought, said, and committed. Fucking bridesmaid gowns!

She slouched out into the larger room, and both women immediately said, “No.”

“Why'd they even send that one over, anyway?” Betsy asked. “It's awful. Nobody can wear that color.”

“Because they want a big fat commission, so better to send too many instead of not enough. Why don't you try the black one?” Jessica suggested.

“Why don't I make a rope out of this one and hang myself?”

“Quit bitching,” the queen ordered, “and go change. And hurry it up; we don't have all night.”

Jessica laughed. “Actually, we do.”

“Well, that's true, but never mind. Change, please.” At Antonia's poisonous glare, she added, “I meant dresses. That wasn't some kind of werewolf put-down.”

“Better not have been,” she muttered and stomped back to the sitting room.

“So, uh.” Jessica was speaking with forced casualness, which smelled like oranges on fire. “When did you figure out that you weren't, uh, going to turn into a wolf ever? I mean, you're pretty young.”

She had to laugh at that one. “I'm old for an unmated werewolf.”

“Oh. Because I was thinking, maybe you just haven't had a, uh, chance to, you know. Change.”

“It happens with puberty.”

“Puberty?” Betsy echoed.

Antonia was wrestling with the zipper. “Yeah, you know. Hair in new places, things get bigger, and suddenly you're thinking about boys. Don't worry, it'll happen for you soon.”

“Okay, okay, you don't have to be a jerk about it.”

“Yes she does,” Jessica whispered, having no idea that Antonia could hear her perfectly well.

“So you were a teenager and you never Changed?”

“Not once.” At last! The thing was on. Hmm, not to bad. She studied herself in the mirror; she looked like one of those old pictures of a Greek stature. The dress was simple; no ruffles or fluffs. Straight across the boobs, falling to her hips, and then falling to the floor. And the deepest black, so black it made her skin glow.

“This one isn't horrible,” she said, stepping out.

“No!” Betsy cried. “Black bridesmaid dresses at a vampire wedding? How clichéd can you get? I mean, it looks great on you, Toni—”

“Stop trying that, it won't work.
An-TONE-ee-uh.
”

“—but I just can't do it.”

“Why are you even getting married? You're already the king and queen, right?”

“It's a long, horrible story,” Betsy said, “and I don't have any alcohol, so I'm not telling it.”

“Maybe that dress in a different color?” Jessica suggested.

“Maybe.” Betsy got up and started circling Antonia, which she thought (but didn't say) was extremely rude in her culture. “It does look great on her. And it helps, frankly, that all my bridesmaids are fabulous-looking.”

“Well, that's true,” Jessica said modestly. “But Tina and I are short.”

“Andrea's tall, though.”

“Yeah, but still. Tina and I won't look as, uh, what's the word? Stately. With this cut of gown, I mean.”

“I don't know,” Betsy said, prowling around Antonia like a panther. “It's a great dress. Good cut, good lines. Probably look good on everybody.”

“I thought we agreed that no dress looks good on everybody. You've got a short skinny black gal, a short brunette, and a tall blonde walking down the aisle in front of you.”

“You
are
really thin,” Antonia informed her. “Where I'm from, they'd hunt for you and be sure you ate everything brought to you.”

“Thanks for that,” Jessica snapped. “I can't help my metabolism any more than Oprah can help hers, so hush up.”

“Hey, I was being nice!”

“That's
nice
for you? Jesus.”

“What colors do you think we should try the dress in?” Betsy said, jumping in. Too bad. Antonia was hungry for a fight, but a catfight would have been a fine substitute. “Emerald green? Royal blue? Red? No, that's another cliché. I have to say, Antonia,” she added, looking her up and down, “you're one of the most gorgeous women I've ever seen. And that's saying something around here.”

She shrugged. This was nothing new, and it was inevitably followed by “too bad you're such a grump” or “it's so unfortunate you're not a complete woman” or “at least you've got your looks.”

“Too bad you're such a grouch,” Jessica added.

Antonia rolled her eyes. “Can I get dressed now?”

“Yeah, I think we're done.”

“Don't tease,” she warned.

“What a baby!” Jessica hooted. “We've been at this barely two hours.”

“We've? You haven't done shit, just stood around running your gums. I've been doing all the work.”

“In return for free room and board, which is not such a bad deal, I might add.”

Antonia snorted but had no comeback for that, so instead she said, “We're really done? You're not just yanking my chain?”

The queen looked shocked. “Not about wedding matters. Never!”

When she went back to the sitting room, Garrett was waiting for her.

S
he blinked at him. There was one door to the sitting room, and he would have had to get past the three of them to get in. She had no idea how he'd slipped by. That lack of scent was maddening, not to mention a real asset.

“Antonia,” he said.

“Shhhh,” she said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “They're right in the next room, I'm sorry to say.” She started wriggling out of the dress. “This is so completely not what I had in mind by helping the queen, I can tell you that right fucking now. I assumed she'd be attacked and I'd save her with my superior—” She realized she was standing in her underwear and he was staring at her.

Stupid monkey customs! Apparently it even bothered dead monkeys, the whole no-clothes thing. Although, strange, she hadn't thought of Garrett as a monkey before. But of course he was. Right? A dead monkey was still—

Well, that wasn't true at all, and she knew it well. He was stronger, faster, quicker. He didn't babble until she felt like ripping out her own throat, he didn't fret, he didn't want to talk about her feelings, he didn't make war to get more money and then pretend it was to help people. He was just…Garrett.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, reaching for her shirt. “I forgot that—look, where I come from—which admittedly isn't here—nobody really cares about nudity. But I'll try to remember in the future—”

“Pretty,” Garrett said and grabbed her arm, which startled her into dropping her shirt. She hadn't even seen him start to move. Now, why was that thrilling instead of frightening?

“Thanks,” she said, “but really, I get that all the time.”

“So?” he asked and pulled again. Now she was in his arms, and his cool mouth was on hers, and his hands were moving in her hair, restlessly, almost tugging.

“Yeah,” she said into his mouth. “That'll work.”

“What's taking so long in there?” Betsy hollered.

“And when you're done kissing me,” she said, pulling back and looking into his eyes, which struck her now as more chocolate-colored than mud-colored, “could you drive that hanger into my ear until I can't hear her anymore?”

“No,” he said and kissed her again. Which she privately thought made the whole stupid trip worthwhile.

T
here was a polite rap at the door; she could smell a single youngish man, blood, and vomit. It was six o'clock in the morning; everyone had gone to bed (to coffin?) but her. Jessica, she had since learned, adjusted her sleeping schedule to the vampires', and Betsy usually went to bed early.

With her charge out of commission until dawn, Antonia found herself putzing about in her room with absolutely nothing to do. She cursed herself for not stocking up on magazines before she came to the house.

There was another knock, interrupting her thoughts. “Come,” she called.

The door swung open, and a twenty-something dark-haired man of average height (wasn't Minnesota supposed to be the land of blondes? What was with all the brunettes?), wearing pea-green hospital scrubs and scuffed tennis shoes, stood framed in the doorway. Interestingly, his stethoscope was still around his neck.

“You smell like puke,” she informed him.

“You must be Antonia,” he replied, grinning. He held out his hand, and she reluctantly shook it. “I'm Marc Spangler. Dr. Spangler, which is why I reek. I swear, I thought the nurse was going to grab the emesis basin in time, but, as so often in my life, I was sadly wrong.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “That's too bad. So you spend your days getting puked on?”

“And peed on, and shat on, and bled on,” he said cheerfully. “But hey, the pay sucks and the hours are horrible, so it all works out. Luckily, my rent is low.”

She laughed again. “What can I do for you, doctor?”

“Oooooh, almost polite and everything! That's funny, I was warned about you.”

“Pussies,” she scoffed.

“Mmm. Well, today I gotta earn my keep—Sinclair asked me to take a look at you. So if you don't mind.” He didn't trail off, as people usually did when they said such a thing. And she realized that, in his laid-back way, he wasn't really asking.

“I'm not crazy,” she said. “And you're not a shrink, I bet.”

“No, just a garden-variety E.R. rez. But what the hell, it'll make the big guy feel better, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “Right. Get on with it.”

He took her pulse and blood pressure and listened to her heart and lungs. He chatted with her about this and that, and she wasn't supposed to notice that he was checking for depression, schizophrenia, paranoia, or delusional thinking.

“Look, I'm flunking your little mental health checklist,” she told him, rolling her sleeve back down, “because I do believe things most people don't, I do think people are out to get me, and I'm really bummed about my life, which is why I'm here.”

“Yeah, but on the bright side, your vitals are all textbook perfect. You've got the heart and lungs of a track star.”

“Well,” she said, shrugging modestly. “Superior life form and all that.”

“Descended from wolves, is that right?”

She rolled her eyes and didn't answer.

“Uh-huh. But of all the werewolves—and there aren't very many—but of all of them, only
you
don't turn into a wolf during the full moon. Instead, you can see the future.”

She sighed. “I know how it sounds.”

“It sounds like you're loony tunes,” he told her gleefully, “but who am I to judge? I live with vampires.”

She smiled at him. She liked him, and on short acquaintance, too! Unheard of. “That's true,” she replied. “So what are you telling the king?”

“That you're the picture of health, but I have no idea if you're crazy or not. For what it's worth, you don't seem like a drooling psychopath.”

“Aw.”

“Time will tell,” he went on perkily. “Just when I thought it was getting dull around here, too. I mean, how many times can Betsy obsess over her bouquet?”

She didn't answer him; she was looking at the picture that had popped into her head. “Dr. Spangler,” she said after a few seconds.

“Hon, call me Marc. Dr. Spangler is—no one I know, actually, but it's weird, anyway.”

She reached out and touched his arm, gently, she thought, but he ow'ed and pulled away. “Youch! Hon, you don't know your own strength.”

“Call security before you treat your first patient. Have them check his coat pockets. Understand? Because if you don't…” She was rubbing her temples in anticipation of the headache to follow if he ignored her, not to mention the aggravation of funeral arrangements and Betsy's hysterics. “If you don't, your first patient will be your last—stop that!”

He had whipped the stethoscope out and was listening to her heart. She pulled away. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yup. Did you know your pulse goes way, way up when you're having one of those visions or whatever?”

“Yes,” she said and escorted him out. “Remember what I said!” she yelled at him and shut the door before he could bug her with more questions.