Undead and Uneasy (5 page)

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."

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) 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 seehim .

"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?"

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"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.

Whereis 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.

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) 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 likethis ."

"Like what?"

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

Mom frowned. "What was that again?"

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"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!"

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"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'releaving ?" I nearly shrieked.

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"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.

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.

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) 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

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¦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?

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) 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?

“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?"

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"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."

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) 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.