Betsy 4 - Undead and Unreturnable, Page 3

  "The Ant?"

  "I'm inviting her."

  "You are? Well, maybe she'll have a face-lift scheduled that day."

  I perked up. "Maybe. You think? Anyway. I'm leaning toward chocolate with raspberry ganache filling, topped with chocolate-covered strawberries. And, you know, ivory basket-weave fondant icing."

  "Stop, you're making me hungry."

  "And I've been trying to get Sinclair to go tux shopping."

  "Why? He's got a million of them."

  "Yeah, but this is the tux. The mother of all tuxes. The wedding day tux. He needs something special."

  "Maybe in a nice powder blue," she suggested.

  I laughed. "Or canary yellow. Can you imagine? Wouldn't he just die?"

  "Again. Actually, he seems pretty close to it. He, uh, doesn't seem all that interested in the details. I mean, more than most guys. Which is weird, given his cool metrosexualness."

  I hadn't heard that exact term (which had been sooo trendy the year before but was now woefully overused) applied to Sinclair, but I only had to mull it over for half a second before I realized she was right. He had a big dick, adored women, didn't mind kicking the shit out of bad guys, insisted on redecorating all the parlors, was a foodie and a tea snob. Ah, the love of my life. Great in bed and would only drink tea from leaves, not bags. Whodathunkit.

  I sat down on one of the chairs and watched George busily crochet. Speaking of metrosexuals. He'd already done four inches across.

  "You know how it is. Sinclair's like a tick, he gets so stubborn. 'We're married by vampire law, a ceremony is redundant,' blah-blah."

  "That's tough," she said sympathetically. She was digging around in her craft bag and tossing more skeins of yarn to George. A wool rainbow flew through the air: red, blue, yellow, purple. "But you know it's not a question of love. You know that, right?"

  "I guess…"

  "Come on, Bets. You guys got that cleared up at Halloweentime. He worships you. He'd do anything for you. He's done anything for you. It's not his fault he's considered you guys to be married for the last eight months."

  "Mmm. Did you know, our wedding is going to be the first vampire monarch wedding in the history of dead people?"

  "Something for the diary. Vampire monarch wedding?"

  "Umm. Because vampires get married now and again. And a vampire/human couple will get married—like Andrea and Daniel. But I guess since the Book of the Dead claims we're already married, it's never actually been done."

  "So?"

  "Exactly," I said firmly. "Exactly! Who gives a damn if it's never been done? No reason not to do it. But I'm not taking his name."

  Jessica burst out laughing. "I just realized. If you did, you'd be Sink Lair."

  "Don't even tell me."

  "Better not tell him. He's kind of a traditionalist."

  Exactly what had been worrying me lately.

  Chapter 6

  One of the ghosts came to bug me while I was updating my diary. I don't know why I bothered. I'd write full steam for about a week and then totally lose interest. My closet was full of ninety journals that were only used through the first fifteen pages.

  Marc had just left after begging me, once again, to have a carrot cake instead of chocolate. The maniac. We exchanged cross words and then he huffed out. Jessica was asleep. (It was two A.M.) Tina was out on the town, probably feeding. (I was careful not to ask.) Sinclair was somewhere in the house.

  And the ghost was standing in front of my closet with her back to me, bent forward like a butler bowing from the waist, her head stuck through the door. I don't even know why I turned around. She'd been as noisy as a dead battery. I just did. And there she was.

  I sat there for a moment and took a steadying breath, ignoring the instant dizziness. This happened occasionally. Part of the queen thing. The first time I'd been scared shitless. Ironically, I was terrified of dead things.

  I wasn't used to it, exactly, but at least these days I didn't go tearing out of the room to cringe in the driveway.

  "Um," I said.

  She pulled her head out and looked at me, amazed. "You have a lot of shoes."

  "Thanks."

  "More than Payless."

  I concealed a shudder. "Thanks." We stared at each other. She was a small strawberry blonde, about five foot nothing, with her hair pulled up in an I-Dream-of-Jeannie ponytail. She was blue-eyed and had lots of caramel-colored freckles all over her face and hands. She was wearing beat-up blue jeans and a booger-colored turtleneck. Battered black flats; no socks. Freckles on the tops of her feet, too.

  "I'm, ah, sorry to bother you. But I think I—I think I might be dead."

  "I'm really sorry to have to tell you this," I replied, "but you are."

  She sat down on my floor and cried for about ten minutes. I didn't know what to say or do. I couldn't leave, though that was my first impulse—to give her some privacy. But I was afraid she'd take it the wrong way.

  I couldn't touch her—my hands went right through ghosts, and it was horrible. Like plunging your limbs into an ice bath. So a supportive pat or hug was out of the question. "There, there" seemed unbelievably lame. So did going back to my journal. So I just stayed in my desk chair and watched her and waited.

  After a while, she said, "Sorry."

  "You're totally entitled."

  "I knew, you know. I just—hoped I was wrong. But nobody—you're the only one—nobody can see me. The EMTs couldn't see me, and the guys in the morgue, and my boyfriend."

  "How did you know to come here?"

  "I—I don't know."

  "Okay." Dammit! If the ghosts knew, nobody was telling. I didn't know if there was a sign outside my house ("She sees dead people") that only the dead could see, or what. Not that it made much difference. But I was curious.

  She sighed. "I was hoping you could do me a favor."

  "Sure," I said at once. I knew from experience that it was just easier (and quicker) to give them what they wanted. Otherwise, they hung around and talked to me at the most awkward moments. Ever been interrupted by a ghost while you're washing your hair? Or going down on your fiancé? Awkward. "What can I do for you?"

  "Well, the last thing I remember—the last time anybody else could see me—I had just run out of our apartment building. Mine and my boyfriend's. We had this big wicked fight because he thought I was cheating on him, but I swear I wasn't!"

  "Okay."

  "And if you could just—go see him? And tell him? I only had dinner with the guy twice. I wasn't going to do anything. It's Denny I love. I'm so mad I didn't realize that before running out in front of the—anyway. I hate the thought—I hate the thought—of Denny thinking to the end of his days that the last thing I did was cheat on him. I mean, I can't sleep for worrying about it." She paused. "Not that I could anyway. I think. But it's really bothering me. It—it really is."

  "I'll be glad to go see him. I'll do it first thing tomorrow night."

  "I live in Eagan," she said. Then she gave me excellent directions, which I wrote down in my journal.

  "No problem at all. It's done."

  "Thank you so m—" Then she looked extremely surprised and popped out of sight. This was also expected. It was like whenever they got whatever-it-was off their chests, they could go to… wherever.

  Poor thing. I was getting all kinds. At least she didn't feel bad about stealing or a dead mom or criminal assault or something awful like that.

  I went back to my journal and realized she'd never told me her name—and I'd never bothered to ask. This bothered me a lot… was I getting jaded? Well, obviously I was, but how bad?

  Dammit.

  Chapter 7

  The next night, I pulled back into my driveway after going about my little errand. The boyfriend—Denny—had been tearfully receptive to my news. That was the weirdest part of all the ghost stuff… not only did the ghosts feel better after they told me what they wanted, but whomever I told also felt better. Believed me, unquestioningly. None of
that Whoopi Goldberg skepticism in Ghost. No, it was always, "Thank you so much, thank God you told me, now I can get on with my life, are you sure you don't want any coffee?" Very strange. But better than the alternative, I figured.

  There was a shiny red Dodge Ram pickup in the driveway, parked crookedly, one tire actually in the grass. I had no idea who the hell it was—no one I knew drove a red truck—and wondered if I wanted to go in.

  See, things started out innocently enough—a visitor, a comment, finding out a new vampire rule—and the next thing I know, I'm up to my tits in undead politics, or attempted revolutions, or dead bodies.

  It had gotten so that I distrusted everything new, no matter how minor. And that was a big truck. Not minor at all. With a super-cab, no less. It could have brought five new troublemakers to my house, easy.

  I looked at my watch. It was only six-thirty. But that meant Tina and Sinclair were up, at least. So if it was something annoying, I'd at least have help. Maybe I could fob the whole thing off on them.

  Shit, maybe it didn't have a single thing to do with me!

  Nah.

  I let myself in the front door in time to hear a cracking adolescent male voice yell, "I'll go if Betsy wants me to go, so cram it, Sinclair!"

  I knew that piping, wanting-to-be-deep-but-not-quite-making-it voice. Jon Delk, former head of the Blade Warriors, current pain in my ass. After the Warriors disbanded last summer, he'd gone back to the family farm. I hadn't heard from him since. What the hell could have brought him back? Nothing good, that's what.

  "Tina," I heard Sinclair say casually, and because I knew that voice, I started running, "see our little friend out."

  "Go ahead, vampire. You just lay one dead finger on me."

  "Okay," Tina said cheerfully and then I burst into the kitchen.

  "Stop it! Whatever it is, play nice, you bums."

  "Betsy." His face—his young, wholesome, ridiculously handsome face—brightened when he saw me, and he smiled so wide his dimples showed. "Hey. Great to see you. You look great. It's really… uh…"

  "Great?" Sinclair snarked, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. Stretched out in front of him like they were, his legs looked a mile long.

  His darkness was an odd contrast to Jon—I mean, everything about Eric was dark. The clothes, the attitude. Even the way he carried himself; like he could pounce on you at any minute.

  Meanwhile, Jon was practically vibrating from trying just to stand still, and he kept raking his hands through his blond hair, which did nothing to straighten it. He was always in constant motion, while Eric could do statue imitations and win, every time.

  Jon's blue eyes watched us all anxiously, but I could smell gun oil and leather, so I knew he was wearing a holster somewhere—probably his armpit. Guys loved the armpit holster, though my mom had taught me it was one of the worst places to carry a gun. You could never get to it in time.

  And he probably had at least one knife on him. He looked like a corn-fed nineteen-year-old, and he was. But he had also teamed up with a bunch of loners and killed more vampires than most people would see in a lifetime.

  Luckily, he liked me, and liking me had ruined his taste for staking vampires. I wasn't sure why, because most vampires were assholes, but I wasn't going to complain. I held out my hand, and Jon shook it with a sweaty palm. "It's nice to see you, too. Is anything wrong?"

  "I guess that depends," he replied, glaring over his shoulder at the lounging Sinclair, "on who you ask."

  "No, uh, new dead people, though. Right?"

  He shook his head. "Nothing like that. Betsy, can I talk to you in private? Maybe in your room?"

  "Our room," Sinclair corrected, and smiled when the blood rushed to Jon's face.

  "Oh, so you've finally gotten around to moving your stuff in? You've only had two months."

  That took care of the smile, I was happy to see, and sure, maybe I shouldn't have said it, but I couldn't stand to see them picking on a kid. It was the fifth grade all over again.

  "The queen has many duties," Tina added, her legs scissoring in her lap as she crossed them and looked smug. "I don't think there's time to—"

  "Butt out, Tina. And Eric—knock it off. Hello, guest in our happy home?"

  "Uninvited guest," Sinclair muttered.

  "You wanna go?" Jon challenged. "Because we'll go, partner. Anytime."

  "As a matter of fact, I do want to go," Sinclair said, straightening up from the counter in a movement so abrupt, even I couldn't see it.

  "No, no. You guys! Jeez." I turned to Jon, who had a hand out of sight under his jacket. "Don't you dare pull a gun in my kitchen. I'm the only one who can pull a gun in my kitchen. Let's go up." Men! Like rats fighting over a hamburger, I swear to God. "Tell me all about… whatever it is. We all wondered where you went after you left."

  He was young enough that he didn't feel silly sticking his tongue out at them—but boy, he sure looked silly. Tina rolled her eyes, but Sinclair just stared at him like a snake at an egg. I bit my own tongue, figuring Jon had taken enough shit for one day.

  Chapter 8

  I let him go ahead of me on the stairs, speaking of juvenile actions. I couldn't help it; he had the nicest butt. He favored faded blue jeans and big belts, shitkicker boots, and T-shirts. He looked like an ad for Wheaties.

  We had barely gotten to the first landing when he whirled, grabbed my shoulders, and burst out, "Betsy, you can't!"

  Startled, I grabbed his wrists. "What?"

  "You can't marry him."

  "That's why you're here?" I mean, liking me was something, but for heaven's sakes.

  "You can't do it, Betsy." I was gently trying to loosen his fingers from my shoulders, but he clung like plastic wrap. "I know you, and it'll never work. You're good, and he's not. He's totally not. You can't marry him."

  "Jon…" My God, was I going to have to break his fingers? "Personal bubble, Jon."

  He let go. Whew. "Sorry."

  "Jon, listen. I know Sinclair has done his share of—"

  "Murderous disgusting blood-sucking deeds?"

  "—uh—questionable errands, but he's not really that bad. I mean, Nostro was bad. Monique was bad. He's just trying to get along."

  "Betsy, that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. He is a bad man. If this was a western, he'd be the one wearing the black hat."

  "Jon, you have no idea what bad really is," I said, as nicely as I could. "If you did, you'd know Sinclair wasn't it. The vampire world, like our world, isn't black and white… there's tons of gray areas. Sometimes you have to make a bad choice to do a good thing. He's done everything for me—he's been killed for me, and he's saved my life. I think he's saved my life. I mean, assuming I could even—never mind, we're getting off the subject."

  "Betsy." Jon stuck his hands in his front pockets, past the wrist, and looked away. "Sometimes a guy will do things for a—for a pretty girl. I'm not saying I don't think he, uh, likes you."

  "You're saying I'm too good for him."

  "Well…"

  "That's really nice." I meant it. It was the compliment of the month. It was the thing I would take out and reminisce about when I was an old lady. "But I know what I'm doing. And I love him. I bet that's the last thing you want to hear, but it's true. And how could I not get married to the guy I love?"

  He winced and still wouldn't meet my eyes. "Maybe it's a trick."

  "Like a vampire mojo thing? I only think I love him? I really only love his teeth and his dick?"

  That did it; he glared at me, full in the eyes, and the blood rushed into his cheeks. "Don't talk like that. That's not what I—"

  "Because, believe me, I resisted the dark side for as long as I could. Then I realized he really wasn't. Bad, I mean. Well, that bad." Did it sound like I was making excuses for him? I didn't mean to. It was just… difficult to put into words. How I felt about him. What he meant to me. Shit, I'd only admitted to myself that I loved him three months ago. "He just took a little getting us
ed to."

  "Betsy, I'm not saying I don't think it's a good match—although I don't."

  Now I was confused. "So you are saying you don't think it's a good match? Right?"

  He kept going, unfortunately. Full speed ahead, and damn the torpedoes. "I don't think he's a good man. For anybody."

  "Oh, so if he was marrying, say, Tina, you would have come down here to warn her off, too?"

  Stubborn silence.

  "Jon, did you really come all the way from the valley to try to stop my wedding? Because you had months to do that, you know."

  "Ani stopped by and she—we caught up on current events, I guess you could say. And—" He cut himself off, but I knew where he'd been going. And as soon as I heard you were getting married, 1 got in my dad's truck and left. Oh, boy. Poor Jon. Crushes were the absolute worst. I'd almost rather die again. It felt like dying again, when you heard the person you adored above all others had never, ever given you a thought like that, and probably never would.

  "I'm getting married, Jon. On"—for an awful moment I couldn't remember the new date—"September 15. I'd love it if you could come. All the Bees are welcome."

  He smiled. Well, his lips moved. We both pretended not to notice that his eyes had filled and he was sniffing like he'd instantly picked up a cold—or a cocaine habit. "That stupid name."

  "Hey, you want to talk stupid? How about the Blade Warriors? I feel ridiculous even saying it to you. You're lucky I just use the first letter."

  The Blade Warriors! Oh, boy. Like my life wasn't silly enough. This past summer a bunch of kids—yep, that's right, not one of them could legally drink—got together and started hunting down vampires. The scary part? They were weirdly successful. (Vampires were notoriously complacent.) The scarier part? I was able to talk them into not doing that anymore. The Bees (I tried not to use the stupid name) had scattered and gone their own way. And now one of them was back, almost literally in my lap.

  "I don't know if I'll be able to come," he said, changing the subject… but not really.