Undead and Unworthy (20 page)

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"You suck at cheering me up. You're not telling me there's gonna be worse days than

this?
" To say I was appalled would be putting it mildly. "What else did that rotten Book of the Dead tell you?"

He paused for a long time. Then: "Elizabeth, I can promise nothing, save that I will always

be by your side."

I noticed he didn't answer the question. "Oceans of blood," I said.

"Possibly. Yes."

"We'll just see about that."

"Elizabeth, if you'll forgive a pun, do not bite off more than you can chew."

"That's been the story of my life since I woke up in that funeral home wearing the Ant's

shoes. Oceans of blood? Shit on that. Shit all
over
that."

I had no idea what I was going to do, or how. But I was going to work
real
hard to make

sure my friends and I never had to go through a week like this again.

This was going to sound dumb, but the empty crib in the next room was practically calling

my name. I had to stop fobbing my brother on other people.

I wondered if the Ant ever visited him.

It was a day later; Garrett had been respectfully buried. Sinclair owned several farms and

lots of land; what with Alice's remains, among others, we were starting quite the little

private cemetery out on Route 19. It was awful and interesting at the same time.

The police chief's body had been found in his home, dead from an apparent suicide. Many

cops went on record saying he had been deeply depressed about retiring but had rejected

counseling.

Deeply depressed. Yeah. They didn't know the half of it.

"I have to tell Antonia's pack leader what happened. They deserve to know what happened

to her, how she died. How she – how wonderful she was. I got the impression her pack

never appreciated her, didn't you guys?"

They all nodded. Sure, we knew. Her ability to tell the future (and not turn into a wolf)

had given all the other werewolves the creeps. They had been happy to see her go. And

when I had "fixed" her, the fact that she hadn't rushed back home meant so much to me.

She chose to stick it out with me.

I'd never get the chance to thank her. As far as a recall, I don't think I ever thanked her for

anything.

My chest hitched once... twice... then settled. No, I was done crying for a while.

"Anyway, I want them all to know how she saved me. Hopefully they can guide us in how

to treat... what's left of her."

Poor Antonia was in our basement freezer until I learned more about werewolf rituals for

their dead. I wasn't looking forward to telling the boss werewolf that I'd gotten his pack

member killed (Michael Wyndham had a wicked temper and a terrifying left cross), but it

was something that had to be done.

Jessica didn't say anything, just poured herself another cup of tea. I'd told her my plan the

night before in a lame attempt to distract her from breaking up with Nick. I felt

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) tremendously guilty that she'd picked me over him. Of course, I would have felt a lot

worse if she'd gone the other way.

Maybe someday they could patch things up. I'd see if I could do something about that.

He'd been hurt and scared and said things he didn't mean. I had tried to explain it to

Jessica last night, but had no idea if she really heard me. Maybe... in time...

But maybe it was for the best if they
never
got back together. It would sure cut down on

the vampire attacks he had to endure... the price of admission when you hung out with the

people in Monster Mansion. And I truly didn't know how much more Nick could endure.

He seemed like a rubber band, stretched almost – but not quite – to the breaking point.

I shook my head, then noticed Marc was shaking his head. "I spend one Goddamn week in

a hotel and then
this.
" He was feeling as guilty as I was; he was convinced he could have done something for Antonia if he'd been here.

"Mathematically," Tina began gently, "given the age and abilities of our opponents, we got off rather lightly. And Garrett made his own choice. I – "

"That's enough," I said coldly, and Tina shut up.

"When?" my husband asked, mildly enough. "I'll need to clear my schedule."

"Tomorrow."

"As you wish."

"I'll come with, if you like," Laura offered. She'd been agog all evening, listening to our tale of the awful events of the night earlier. "It's not trouble at all."

I was glad she had missed it (yay, church youth group!), to be honest. No telling what the

body count would have been if she'd lost her temper. Or where the chief's bullets might

have gone if he'd known who had really killed dear old dad. Just the thought of it gave me

the willies.

In fact, it was safe to say that her temper was hanging over my head like a friggin'

broadsword. Someday I was going to have to really sit down and figure out just what the

deal was with the devil's daughter.

But not today. Not even this month. I was just so fucking tired.

"I'd be glad to come," my sister was continuing, eager to help. "I've got a Toys for Tots meeting, but it's no problem to postpone – "

"No, I need you to stay here and hold down the fort. And Tina – Richard, Stephanie, and

Jane need looking after. Move them here while we're out of town, if that helps. Or
you
can move out to the McMansion until we get back. It's just temporary, until we can figure out

something more permanent."

Tina nodded and jotted a note to herself on the notepad she always kept nearby. "As you

wish, Majesty."

"I'll keep BabyJon for you," Laura volunteered.

I smiled at my sister and shook my head, then turned to my husband. "Actually, I'd like to

bring him to the Cape with us, if you don't mind. I've been spending too much time

fobbing him off on other people, which is no good. I'm the only mother he's got now."

Sinclair tried to hide the wince (not a baby guy, my husband), but nodded. "As you like,

Elizabeth. I do agree, we should probably get used to the idea of being" – he didn't quite

gag on the word –
'parents'.

"A fine thing, my son being brought up by vampires," the Ant said.

"I suppose you're coming, too."

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"Of course," my dead stepmother said, amused.

"That reminds me," I told my puzzled friends. "I figured it out. Why the Ant's here."

"To find a cure for bad dye jobs?" Jessica joked.

"Not hardly. See, she lived for making me miserable, she got off on setting my dad against

his only kid, she loved irritating me in a thousand small ways."

"You make it sound as if that was my only purpose in life," the Ant sniffed.

"It was."

"What was?" Jessica asked.

I kept forgetting no one could hear her or see her but me. Lucky, lucky me. "Never mind.

Point is, she's not done yet," I finished. "Not near done. So she's not going anywhere. She can't."

"Believe me, I've tried," she said sourly.

"So we're stuck with her indefinitely."

"That's right!" the Ant said triumphantly. "No more Mrs. Nice Guy!"

Exactly. Things were going to be very, very different from now on.

But the Ant didn't know me. Not the new me, the me that forced Fiends to their knees and

broke necks and cured cancer. She was going to have her hands full.

For that matter,
anyone
who got in my way, who hurt my friends, who tried to stop me

from making the world better, was going to have their hands full.

They didn't know this queen. Not like I did.

"You again."

"Me again," I agreed, plonking the six-pack of Budweiser into my grandpa's lap. He let

out a yelp and gave me a look like he'd like to burn me alive. I'm sure if he'd had a can of

gasoline and a box of matches, he would have tried.

He slipped a can free, popped the top, took a greedy swig, then let out a satisfied belch.

"Ahhhh. You're not entirely useless."

"Aw, Grandpa. That gets me right here."

He grunted and almost smiled – almost. "Where's the new guy? The Injun you married?"

"It's Native American, you old jerk."

"Oh, fuck me and spare me that PC crap."

I could see we weren't going to get anywhere unless I worked around to my topic of

conversation a lot faster.

"To answer, he's looking after his business and junk like that." Truth was, I had no interest in involving myself in Sinclair's business affairs. One, it would have bored me near to

death. Two, he'd been making himself rich for decades. He sure didn't need any help from

me.

I settled myself into the chair across from the bed. He was in his wheelchair (the one he

didn't need) by the window. It had been full dark for half an hour.

"So what's on your brain, Betsy?"

"I distinctly remember you telling me on several occasions that I didn't have one," I teased gently.

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"Yeah, well, you never come over without a purpose. Introducing the new guy. Telling me

about that twat and your dad when they died. So what do you want? There's a
Sandford

and Son
marathon starting in twenty minutes."

"How d'you do it?"

"Do
what?
" he said impatiently, then slurped up more beer.

"Kill people. And then not worry about it." I was speaking with a world war veteran, a

man awarded the Bronze Star. Fourth highest award in the armed forces. It was hanging

on the wall above my head.

His platoon had run into some bad luck, had been in the wrong place at the wrong time...

a not unusual occurrence in wartime, I was sure. Grandpa had grabbed his Lee Enfield

sniper rifle, found scant cover, and picked off Germans one by one while his buddies were

scrambling to get away. As sergeant, he had
ordered
them to get away.

He took four bullets: two in his left arm, one just above his right knee, and one had

clipped off his left earlobe. Two of his men had dragged him away, as he protested bitterly

that he was just fine,
fine, Goddammit, let go, you jackasses, I've got work to do!

I had work to do, too.

Meanwhile, my grandpa had finished the beer (barf... words could not describe how much

I hated the taste of beer) and was holding an unopened can in his left hand. "Kill people?

Izzat what you said? And then not worry about it?"

"Yeah."

"What happened, idiot?"

I shook my head. "It's a really long story, and I come off pretty bad in it."

Grandpa shrugged, instantly losing interest in what brought me here, what had happened

to make me ask that question. As Margaret Mitchell wrote about Scarlett O'Hara, he

could not long endure any conversation that wasn't about him.

"It was wartime," he said at last. "They were the bad guys. It wasn't like it is now. Things were a little more black and white back then. They were killing every Jew they could find.

I think those little black beanie things the men wear are pretty stupid, but it's no reason to

pick 'em off like Goddamned mosquitoes."

I had to admit, I was surprised. Among other things, my darling maternal grandfather was

a major bigot. I found it distinctly interesting that he'd fought because he saw a minority in

trouble.

He was staring out the window now, and I had the very strong impression that if I spoke

to him before he'd gotten all of it out, he'd clam up and take it to the grave.

The secret.

"Yup, they were doing terrible things," he mused. "And we were fools to wait until after Pearl Harbor to kick some ass. But once we were there, we were
there.
We did the work,

and we didn't bitch about our feelings the whole time, either. God, I hate that 'tell me how

that makes you feel' touchy-feely bullshit."

I nodded. I knew that, too.

"And when my guys got in a tight spot – why, I looked out for 'em just like they'd been

looking out for me. I just kept that in my mind. Keeping my guys alive and sending as

many of the bad guys to Hell that I could. That's all I thought about."

He looked straight at me, his eyes – my eyes – green and gleaming. "And then I never

thought about it again. What for? Dead's dead, honey. You don't know that by now, I

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) wash my hands of you."

"Thanks for the tolerance and acceptance," I said dryly. Thinking,
there's a trick or two I
could tell you about
death, Grandpa. Things you never, ever dreamed of. Things that

would turn your hair white, if it wasn't already.

But of course I wouldn't.

"What it comes down to is this, Betsy: you do what you need to, and then you haul ass

out of there. Every single time."

"And never think of it again."

He nodded and popped the second Bud. "I didn't say it was an easy road. Shit, I lost

plenty of my own fellas over there. I still miss Leary, that Irish fuck. But he died for a

reason – a good one. Maybe the best one – kicking ass to keep the bullies out of the