Undead and Unappreciated, Page 3

  “Oh, cool!” And it would be. So cool. A Halloween wedding ceremony…with vampires! Plus, more than two weeks to figure out exactly what the heck I was supposed to do.

  Daniel looked vaguely alarmed. Again, typical guy. “That’s kind of quick, don’t you think?”

  “That’s okay,” I said, trying to catch Andrea’s eye while she glared daggers at her beloved. “Yeah, okay, that’ll work. Do you want to have it here?”

  Again she hesitated, and again she glanced at Daniel, who shrugged and relaxed back on the couch. “If that wouldn’t be too big an imposition, Your Majesty.”

  “It’s no trouble. It’s not like we don’t have the space. Besides, we haven’t had a decent party here in…ever.” I started to cheer up a little, picturing myself in a severe black suit and pumps in maybe a dark purple. Or burnt orange, for the holiday? No, purple.

  “Thank you so much,” Andrea was saying—oops, they were leaving. All business, that was Andrea. Plus Daniel was still yawning. It couldn’t be easy, adjusting to the undead’s schedule. I used to waitress at a truck stop during graveyard shift (years before I knew what the graveyard shift really was), and no matter how much I slept during the day, I always wanted a nap around four a.m. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “No problem,” I replied, walking them to one of the house’s sixty doors. “Talk to you soon. And congratulations again.”

  They said their good-byes, the door shut, and I turned to see Sinclair had followed me. “He asked her to marry him?” he asked, staring after them thoughtfully.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “You should try it sometime.” Then I walked past him and marched up the stairs to my bedroom.

  Chapter 4

  Which was really stupid, because I had work to do tonight. I had to check on Scratch and the Fiends. So I pushed up my bedroom window, popped the screen, stuck a leg over the windowsill, and jumped.

  One of the few nice things about being dead is it’s pretty much impossible to die again. So a three-story fall was no problem at all. It didn’t hurt; it didn’t even knock the breath (what breath?) out of me. It was like jumping off the bed.

  I hit the grass, rolled, stood up, shook the dead leaves out of my hair, examined the grass stain on my left knee…then remembered I’d forgotten my keys and my purse, and went to ring the front doorbell.

  Finally, I was in my car, headed to my nightclub, Scratch.

  It wasn’t really mine. Okay, it was, by vampire law, which was confusing. The way it worked was, if you kill a vampire, all their property becomes yours. Vampires generally don’t have kids or families to leave stuff to, and probate only happens during daylight hours anyway. So, I’d killed this rotten vampire, Monique, and she owned, like, eight businesses, and now they were all mine, but the only one I was really interested in was Scratch. I had Jessica’s accountant put all the others—the school, the French restaurant, the Swiss spa (that one hurt to let go)—up for sale. Tried to, anyway. It was complicated not least because I couldn’t prove I legally owned them. And, like a stubborn ass, I didn’t want Sinclair’s help. If they sold, I’d worry about what to do with the money later. Meanwhile, I was trying to hang on to Scratch, but it wasn’t easy.

  I was glad Monique was gone—well, dead. And not because I got her car and her businesses. Not just because of that. Monique had been bad, even for a vampire. She’d tried—repeatedly—to kill me, but worse, she’d killed other vampires to get to me. And she’d ruined my shirt. She had to go.

  I’d been a secretary and office manager for years before I died, so managing a nightclub—handling the paperwork, anyway—was something I could actually do. Probably. If the other vampires would give me a chance. Trouble was, they hated my guts. I guess employee loyalty was big in the vampire world. They were pretty pissed that I’d offed the boss.

  Not that any of them told me that in so many words. No, they kept their gazes averted and didn’t speak to me unless spoken to. This made it easy to give orders but tough to strike up a conversation.

  So I pulled up outside the club—it looked like an old brownstone, except with valet parking—and went inside. Deader than shit (no pun intended), as usual.

  “Okay, well,” I told one of them…I was having the worst time remembering their names. Probably because they never volunteered them. And vampires didn’t go for those blue and white HELLO MY NAME IS———stickers. “We’ve got to get customers to start coming here again.”

  “Your Majesty knows how to do that,” he replied, staring over my shoulder, which always made me think there was a monster sneaking up on me. Maybe there was. He was about my height, and about my coloring—blond, with light eyes—long slender fingers, and (no joke!) a slight overbite.

  “Don’t start up with that shit,” I told Slight Overbite. “I mean a way to get customers where eighty people don’t die a week.”

  See, the way the vampires liked to run things, they could have “sheep,” a detestable word that meant a human slave/partner, and they could drink blood right out on the dance floor, and if a regular person got on their nerves, bye-bye regular person. Forget it! It was morally wrong, and I’d never get OSHA off my ass.

  “That was under the old management,” I told him. “We’ve been over this. Look, we can run a profitable nightclub for vampires without having to be horrible to regular people.”

  “We can?” he asked, now looking around at the totally deserted dance floor.

  “Oh, shut up. Look: put your thinking cap on your tiny little head, because we’re doing it. If you were a dead guy, wouldn’t you like to hang out in a place where you won’t get hassled?”

  “Yes. And where I could drink and have fun.”

  “No, no. I mean, yeah, drink, have a daiquiri, have three, go crazy. Not…you know.” I made a slashing gesture across my throat.

  He shrugged.

  “We’re going to make it work, Slight Overbite,” I reminded him. This had been my mantra for the last three months.

  He shrugged again.

  “Majesty!” Alice cried, running out to greet me. At least somebody was happy to see me tonight. Well, that wasn’t fair. Andrea and Daniel had been happy to see me. They’d even come to see me. Well, to ask a favor. Still, it was nice to have any kind of company. “Welcome! You should have told me you were coming.”

  “How’s it going, Alice?” As always, I admired her undead creamy complexion (she’d been turned into a vampire after puberty but before adolescence really got its claws into her, so no zits, ever). “How are the Fiends doing?”

  “Really well,” she enthused. “One of them escaped, but I got him back before he killed anyone this time.”

  I shuddered. “Good work. Is it the same one, the one who keeps getting out?” Nostro’s property—another vampire I killed, and don’t go making assumptions, because I’m not that kind of queen—had a high fence around it, but the Fiends were weirdly clever. More animal than human, they were vampires who hadn’t been allowed to feed and had gone feral. This happened under previous management, you understand.

  Anyway, I didn’t feel right about staking them—it wasn’t their fault they’d gone insane with a supernatural hunger for blood—and resisted heavy pressure from Sinclair and Tina to put an end to them. Alice was my Fiend keeper. She kept them clean, kept them fed, kept an eye on them, kept them from feasting on the local children.

  “It’s George,” Alice confirmed. “He’s a free spirit, I guess.”

  He was an insane nutty vampire who forgot how to walk upright, but never mind. “I can’t believe you’ve named them. Sinclair freaked when you told him. Run them by me again.”

  “Happy, Skippy, Trippy, Sandy, Benny, Clara, Jane, and George.”

  I laughed. “Right, right. Good job.” I tried to sober up. Poor things. It wasn’t right to laugh at them. “So, you got George back?”

  “Yes. He wasn’t out for long this time. If you’re looking for him, he’s right behind you, Majesty.”

  I whirled. I loa
thed how vampires could sneak up on me, and the Fiends were…well, fiendish. George looked exactly like the others, with raggedy long hair, long filthy nails (Alice did her best, but like all of us, she had her limitations), unkempt and hungry-looking, with filthy clothes.

  Though, thanks to Alice, they didn’t look quite as wild-eyed as usual. They scuttled like dogs…she was trying to remind them how to walk upright, but they always toppled over, then scampered away. The others stuck around, since they were being fed, but George was a wanderer.

  Right now, he was inching toward me and sniffing the air. The Fiends, luckily for me, were weirdly devoted. In fact, they’d devoured Nostro for me. (I tried to delegate when I could.)

  “Quit that,” I told him. I never knew how to speak to them. It was wrong to treat them like pets, but they weren’t exactly human, either.

  “Stop running away. Be good and listen to Alice.”

  “I don’t exactly talk to them,” she explained. “But I appreciate the support, Majesty.”

  “How’s the house? Everything running okay?” I was talking about Nostro’s sprawling mansion and grounds, which—have I mentioned this?—were all mine since I’d axed his sorry bloodsucking butt this past spring. You couldn’t pay me to live in the creepy place, though, so Alice was my caretaker. Unlike some unnamed employees of a certain nightclub I could mention, she was helpful and nice. “You’d tell me if you needed a hand, right?”

  “Oh, yes, Majesty,” she lied. It was a point of pride with Alice that I relied on her so heavily to take care of the Fiends for me. She’d never admit to needing help. Yes, George got out once in a while, but if not for her, they’d all be out, all the time.

  Sure, I felt bad about the two guys he’d eaten, but since the guys in question had been devoured while attacking lone women on the street, not too bad. “Of course, I would let you know. But everything’s fine.” She looked down at George, who was nibbling on his palm and looking up at the moon. “We’re all fine.”

  Chapter 5

  I stared at the baby shower invitation. It was pink (yurrggh), and sparkly, and seven inches high (how did she find envelopes to fit?) and in the shape of a baby carriage.

  Come and celebrate!

  Antonia’s having a baby!

  (Baby registry at Marshall Field’s,

  612-892-3212, please no green or purple)

  4:00 p.m., October 7th

  “Bitch,” Jessica commented, reading over my shoulder. “She’s having it during the day, when you can’t come.”

  “Not that I’d want to,” I sniffed, but the fact was, the baby-to-be was my half sibling, poor thing.

  “Whatcha gonna get her?”

  “The Ant? How about a brain aneurysm?”

  Jessica walked past me and opened the fridge. “You have to get her something. I mean, the baby something.”

  “How about a new mother?”

  “She’s registered, anyway.”

  “Not too gauche, putting it right on the invitation. With color preferences!”

  “Yes, yes…how about a portacrib?”

  “A what?”

  “It’s a crib that folds up and you can take it around.”

  “Why,” I demanded, gesturing for her to pour me a glass of milk as well, “would you want to take a crib around?”

  “That way, if the baby comes to visit, it’s got a place to sleep.”

  “You think the baby will make a break for it so soon?” I answered my own question. “Of course it will. Poor thing will probably sneak right out of the hospital nursery.”

  “Will you be serious, please?”

  “I can’t. If I think about it seriously, my head will blow up. It’s just one more awful thing in my life right now—physical proof that my father is still having sex with the Ant.”

  “It must be hard to take,” she agreed, “on top of being dead and all.”

  “Tell me.” I took a gulp of milk. Being dead, being Sinclair’s consort, living in this museum-sized mausoleum, trying to run Scratch (it was the only money I had coming in), trying to keep the Fiends on a short leash (literally!), trying to make nice with Dad and the Ant, and finally…“So, check this. Andrea and Daniel are getting married.”

  “And you’re performing the ceremony.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Sinclair told me.”

  “Look, I forbid you to speak with that man.”

  “I’m his landlord,” she reminded me. “We were making polite conversation while he wrote out his rent check.”

  I snorted. Like she needed the money. Jessica was rich. Not “compared to the rest of the world everyone in America is rich” rich. Rich rich. Like, Bill Gates tried to get her to loan him money for a new start-up rich. She turned him down politely, via email. Said it was her way of evening up the universe.

  “This whole thing is ridiculous, you know. It’s ridiculous that we live in this place. It’s ridiculous that he lives with us. It’s ridiculous that you’re charging him rent, and it’s really ridiculous that he pays it. You two have all the money in the world, and you’re just trading it back and forth.”

  “Like baseball cards,” she suggested.

  “It’s not funny, Jessica.”

  “It’s a little bit funny. Besides, what was I supposed to do? After Nostro burned down his house, he was living on hotel room service. And it’s not like we didn’t have the space.”

  I had nothing to say to that, just gulped more milk and slumped at one of the kitchen stools. The room was laid out like an industrial kitchen, except the whole second half had a big table with chairs, and there was a long counter that ran a fourth of the length of the room, also with chairs. It was by far the most inviting room in the house, which is why I usually hung out there. I just didn’t feel right in one of the parlors or the library.

  Besides, the Book of the Dead was in the library. Like last year’s Vogues weren’t bad enough.

  “Someone’s at the door,” I said, wiping off my face.

  “Oh, there is not.”

  “Jessica, there totally is.”

  “No way. You know, you’re like one of those annoying yappy little dogs…every time a car rolls by outside, you freak out and decide someone’s coming up the walk and ringing the—”

  Bonnnnnnng-BONNNNNNNNNNGGGGG.

  “I hate you,” she sighed, getting up.

  I checked my watch. It was almost six o’clock in the morning…probably not a vampire. They didn’t like to be running around so close to sunrise. As a rule, they were more flammable than gasoline. Or was it inflammable? I always got those two mixed up. My D in chemistry had never served me well.

  Sinclair walked in, winding his watch.

  “You really need to get something battery-operated,” I told him.

  “My father gave this to me. And speaking of fathers…”

  “Don’t tell me.” I covered my eyes. Should have covered my ears instead. “Don’t even tell me.”

  “Guess who decided to stop by?” Jessica asked brightly, walking back into the kitchen. That was quick—she must have sprinted there and back.

  I dropped my hands in time to see a tall, good-looking older man walking behind her, puffing to keep up, his dark brown hair heavily flecked with salt, the golfing pants tightly cinched at the waist with an alligator belt, the pink plaid complemented by the pink Izod shirt.

  “Dad,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, which wasn’t a lot. He’d obviously stopped by en route to the links, which should have been touching, but wasn’t.

  “Betsy. Err…” He nodded at Sinclair, then his gaze skittered away. This was a pretty typical reaction when a guy met Sinclair. Women looked away, too…but always looked back.

  “You look nice.” I pointed to the corners of my eyes. “Get something done?”

  His crow’s feet had radically depleted, and he nodded. In fact, he looked better than he had in years. I was so happy my death wasn’t, y’know, weighing heavily on him or anyth
ing. “Yes, your stepmother had me go see Dr. Ferrin. He does the mayor, too,” he added, because he couldn’t help himself.

  Like Sinclair or Jessica cared…or needed it themselves. I looked at him but, as usual, Sinclair didn’t take the hint. In fact, he was—oh, Lord!—sitting down at the table and making himself comfortable.

  “I see you got the announcement,” Dad said, glancing down at my mail, scattered across the counter. I’d always assumed being dead cut down on junk mail, but like so many things I’d assumed about death, I was wrong.

  “Invitation,” Jessica piped up, also sitting down. “Not announcement. Invitation.”

  “Well…but you can’t come…because it’s…you know…”

  “I would be happy to go instead,” Sinclair said with all the warmth of a rutting cobra. “In fact, it would be appropriate if I did. Why…” He grinned, which was horrifying, but also kind of funny. “I’m practically a member of your family.”

  I actually felt sorry for my dad; for a second I thought he was going to faint, just do a header into my mail pile. Sinclair, as an ancient dead guy, could walk around during the day, provided he stayed inside. Maybe he could borrow a fire blanket for going to and from the taxi.

  A mental image of big-shouldered Sinclair in one of his sober suits, sitting primly on one of the Ant’s over-stuffed couches, a pink ribboned gift in his lap…it was too much.

  I was annoyed with the big goober, as usual, but it was kind of cute the way he stuck it to my dad on my behalf. Talk about the son-in-law from hell.

  “You gonna be okay?” I asked Dad, fighting a grin. Jessica, I noticed, had given up that fight.

  “I—I—I—”

  “You could wear the black Gucci,” Jessica told Sinclair. “I picked it up from the cleaner’s yesterday, so it’s all set to go.”

  “Kind of you, dear, but I have told you many times, you are not an errand runner.”

  “I—I—I—”

  “I was there anyway, getting my own stuff.” She shrugged. “No trouble.”