Undead and Unforgiven (12 page)

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

FIVE OR SO WEEKS AGO

“What's up? What's going on?” I'd popped into the Peach Parlor, the small room just off the front hall that boasted peach wallpaper, carpeting, and furniture, thusly named because we were all low on imagination. “Is it a new Big Bad? Is it an old Big Bad? Or are we finally having that vodka intervention for Tina?”

“Never mind my vodka,” Tina warned through a smile.

“Where is everybody?”

“I shall endeavor not to take offense at that.”

I waved that away. “Aw, you know what I mean.”

“His Majesty will be through the door momentarily

(I shall be with you momentarily, my own.)

and this is official vampire king and queen business, and no concern of the others.”

“The others” would take exception, especially Marc, but in my ancient wisdom (I'd be hitting thirty-five pretty
soon) I was learning to pick my squabbles. (Marc in a snit wasn't exactly a battle. More like a nine-hour headache.)

Just then we heard the front door open and in bounded the king of the vampires, carrying two bulging bags of— Aw, no.

“Another flea market? Seriously? This obsession with other people's junk is getting grosser by the week.”

“One man's trash, and all that, my love.” He dropped the bags without ceremony—it was never about the stuff, just the trip to buy the stuff—and came into the parlor, bending to give me a hearty smack on the mouth. “Missed you, wife. You would have liked it.”

“That's a lie and you know it. Only people furnishing their first apartment and retirees enjoy flea markets. I told you after the last one I was flea'd out, and I'm sticking to that. Those outdoor markets are like crack to you. Don't make me cut up your credit cards! And your cash.”

It was all for show; I got almost as big a kick out of Sinclair enjoying the warmth of sunshine without the accompanying warmth of going up in flames.

“Tina.”

“Majesty.”

“Is this the four o'clock you were telling me about? The young lady and her uncle?”

“Yes.”

“You were downright coy about it,” he continued, and Tina smiled and winked at me. Eh? Coy? What?

“I think it might be a pleasant surprise, Majesty.”

“Really? For him, or for all of us? Fill me in,” I ordered, because I should at least
look
like I knew what was going on when the meeting started.

“Fill you in again, did you mean?” Tina asked with honeyed sweetness.

“Do you know what happens to a bottle of vodka when you throw it down the basement stairs?”

“I'll be good,” she said quickly.

“You'd better, or the Cucumber vodka gets it.” But the doorbell rang just then

(donnnnnngggg GONNNNNGGGGGG)

so that was the end of extortion time. Too bad.

“Did we pay extra for the doorbell to sound so ominous?”

“Not at all, my own. I believe it came with the house.”

“Well, hooray for added bonuses.”

“Redundant, my dear.”

“Aw, shaddup.” He made a grab for me but, wise to his wicked ways, I managed to avoid it, and his deep chuckle practically made the room vibrate.

Before things could get interesting, and naked, Tina escorted our visitors into the room, but before I could do more than give them a quick once-over, Sinclair was crossing the room and exclaiming with real warmth, “Lawrence, hello!”

The vampire who'd come in with the cheerleader didn't immediately extend his hand; instead he tilted his head down and dropped his gaze in a subtle bow of deference. Sinclair waved that away (I'd
never
seen him do that with any vampires besides Tina and me) and they shook hands. Then Sinclair turned to me. “My queen, permit me to introduce to you an old friend, Lawrence Taliaferro. Lawrence, this is Elizabeth.”

“Betsy,” I said, like I always do. (Only Sinclair calls me Elizabeth. And my mom when I'm in big trouble.)

I got the elegant head-bow treatment and then shook his cool, long-fingered hand. Lawrence was a couple inches shorter than me at about five foot ten, with brown hair swept back from his forehead and dark, deep-set eyes. He had a lush mouth and high cheekbones and appeared to be dressed for a funeral in a sober black suit, crisp white shirt, and brown paisley tie. His coat sleeves were cut long, brushing almost to his knuckles, and he had new
black dress shoes shined to a high gloss. Etienne Aigner, I decided after a peek. Very nice.

He could have been as old as he looked—late thirties—or five centuries beyond that. I couldn't tell at first sight, not the way Sinclair and Tina could. They could just sort of get a sense of a vamp's age, but not me. Of course, if they looked barely drinking age but started ranting about the fascism of the Prohibition years, that was usually a pretty good tip that they were eligible for AARP membership. But vampires weren't always so obliging about revealing their long years, and it was one of the few things Tina and Sinclair could do that I couldn't. Not everything about being the queen was something that was automatically easy. It was kind of comforting.

“This is my young companion—”

Young companion? Okay, he's old.

“—Cindy Tinsman.” His tone was formal and there was a faint hint of a Southern accent. He beckoned the girl forward and she came, sticking close to his side. She looked intimidated but wildly excited, her pretty tip-tilted dark eyes gleaming as she took everything in. Her hair was razor straight, her bangs so perfectly trimmed you could use them as a ruler. She had shaved part of the left side of her head

(when will that awful trend die? curse you, Miley Cyrus!)

and let the other side swing to about shoulder level. She was in jeans, sneakers, a sweater, and a Simley Spartans high school jacket with a cheering letter.

“Friends with the family?” Sinclair asked, nodding at her.

“Her great-great-grandfather saved my life. I keep an eye on his descendants for him.”

Now see,
this
was the cool thing about some vampires. The good ones used their powers for—well—good. It was nice to know Tina's experience with Sinclair's family wasn't an isolated case, and I liked Lawrence a lot just for that.

“And Miss Chavelle, I see you back there. Nothing to say to an old friend?”

“Lawrence,” Tina said demurely (!), offering her hand. He bent over it but didn't quite kiss it (apparently that was a huge etiquette no-no in some circles, or in 1860). “Always a charmer.”

“Not enough of one, I fear,” he replied, straightening. The black suit made him seem taller than he was, and the cultivated, barely there accent made him sound like a cheerful undertaker: happy, but not
too
happy.

“That wasn't your fault,” she said in a tone of mild reproach. “I think it's time you stopped punishing yourself for it.”

“As always, I am at a lady's command. So lovely to see a Southern girl up here in the wild wastes of the frontier.”

Okay, really
really
old.

“Please sit.” Tina gestured to the love seat, couch, and chairs. “You said it was a matter of some urgency and that only the king and queen could help.”

“Urgency, yes.” But Lawrence grimaced and flicked a glance at Cindy. “But only according to some, like my little girl here.”

“'Mnot a little girl.”

He took in the sullen mumble with a fond look. “When she was younger, she called me Uncle, and so did her mama, years back.”

“Lawrence,” she whined.

He laid it out straight: sorry to disturb, Cindy wanted to become a vampire, like right now, like
now
now because cancer and, again, sorry to bother you with this pesky vampire stuff.

“Wait, what?”

Cindy looked at me, which was an improvement over her glaring at the yucky peach carpet. “My mom and both my aunts died of breast cancer in their forties. Both my
grandmas, too. I'm gonna have to be like Angelina Jolie and get my boobs cut off and my uterus out and everything. And maybe I'll just die anyway.”

Well, we all died anyway, but I was beginning to see her point. But perhaps it wasn't as bleak a picture as she was painting. I had no problem admitting this stuff wasn't my area.

Can we get Marc in on this?

Agreed.

Sinclair glanced at Tina, who simply raised her voice. “Dr. Spangler, would you join us?”

“Hmm?” Looking entirely too innocent, Marc stuck his head around the door frame. Busted! “Oh, sorry, didn't realize you were conducting business in here.”

“On your way out for a jog?” I needled. “With scrubs and a stethoscope around your neck?”

He stood on his dignity and ignored me, and I had to make a real effort not to snicker. “Did you need something, Tina?”

She just quirked an eyebrow at him, and his expression—polite boredom—didn't match how he hustled into the room, almost knocking over one of the overstuffed chairs on his way to her side. “This is Dr. Spangler,” she explained to Cindy, who managed a smile (and why not? Marc was a cutie anytime, but looked cute
and
competent as shit when in doctor mode), and Lawrence, who just stared. And stared. And wouldn't shake hands. And stared.

I started to bristle, when Sinclair's voice slid into my brain like a cool drink.
He knows Marc isn't a vampire but is dead. It's throwing him off. Have patience, my own; most of our kind have never seen a zombie. Lawrence is a good man and will remember his manners at any moment.

Right, right. Sorry.

Trust me. Of all men, Lawrence will be the first to give a zombie the benefit of the doubt.

Okay. Good enough for me, let's give him a minute.

Lawrence seemed to come back to himself and reached out, lightning fast—too fast, Marc flinched—to shake his hand. “Pardon, your pardon, Dr. Spangler. It seems I've left my manners out on the street, for which there is no excuse. I— It's been a difficult week. My apologies again.”

“Yeah, tell us how hard it's been for
you
,” Cindy said acidly, reminding me why teenagers were terrible, and how glad I was I would never be one again. Trapped in an ever-changing adult body and the accompanying hormone tsunami, and constantly urged to act like an adult while being refused all adult privileges. Nightmare.

“Cindy has a family history of cancer,” Tina explained, and brought him up to speed.

Marc thought about it, absently rubbing the stethoscope bell with his thumb. “I'm not an oncologist,” he said after a minute, eyes vague while he ruminated, “but preemptive mastectomies would certainly be an option.” Then he looked right at her. “You lost someone recently. Right?”

“My last aunt,” came the short reply. “November.”

That explains the urgency. How to explain to a teenager nothing has to be decided, much less acted on, right this minute? Answer: you can't.

What the hell, I went for it. “Cindy, I'm so sorry for your loss. But it's a little soon to decide that a lethal allergy to sunshine, a liquid diet, and permanent blackout curtains are the way to go. You've got years to—”

“No! I have to get turned
now
. If I wait too long I could be a vampire with cancer.” Which was technically true. I had my appendix out when I was thirteen, and it didn't grow back when I came back as a vampire. If you had gray hairs or wrinkles or arthritis in life, you'd have them in (un)death. One of the most powerful vampires I ever met/killed was turned in her sixties. She could overpower just about anybody, but still had permanent crow's-feet and shitty close vision. She was the vampire nation's librarian
and archivist, which made the whole thing even more ironic and unsettling.

“Okay, that's a fair point, but—”

“I'm not just going to—going to chop pieces off myself to try to stay ahead of the fucking thing only to maybe end up with it anyway,
duh
!”

“
Cindy
.” Lawrence's voice was like a whip (judging from her flinch, anyway). “I did not bring you here to be unforgivably rude to my sovereigns. Apologize
at once
.”

I waved it away before she could open her mouth, to Sinclair's vague annoyance. “'Sfine. Look, you're not even a legal adult yet. Even if we were on board with Plan Outwit/Outplay/Outlast Cancer, we couldn't turn you. There are laws about that stuff.”

Kind of. More like firm guidelines, big number one being no fair turning kids, asshats. In the old days, the vampire who turned the kid
and
the kid were killed in a variety of nasty, vomit-inducing ways. Having met such a vampire—a century old but forever trapped in the body of a fifth grader; imagine the horror—I never wanted to meet one again.

To our knowledge, since we'd come to power no one had turned a child. When it happened (it was, Sinclair explained, inevitable, because there was nothing new under the sun, and assholes were everywhere) we'd tackle it, and them: the turner and the turnee. Penalties would depend on the circumstances, though our inclination was something along the lines of,
Fuck you. You don't do that to kids. Any last words before we set your lungs on fire?

“I know. That's why we're here,” she replied, and she actually stomped her foot in her impatience. Gawd, adults were soooo sloooow. “Because you guys can break that rule. You can break any rule; you're the ones in charge.”

Her neck would snap like a dead branch.
Sinclair's thought was more wistful than murderous; this was not a vampire
king interested in, or used to, dealing with kids. He liked BabyJon, and found Jessica's weird babies fascinating, but that was about it.

Knock it off. Being sixteen sucks.

In my day . . .

When you do that? It's not sexy. At all. Besides, give her props just for having the courage to come. And there's something else going on with her. It's not just making an end run around cancer . . .