Undead and Unforgiven (5 page)

CHAPTER

FIVE

“Okay . . . that's not . . .
completely
terrible.” Whoa. From the Ant, that was high praise. “Except for the shoe addendum. That's just stupid.”

“It is not! Okay, it's a little dumb. But give me a break, it took me hours to come up with all that.” Well.
An
hour. Except it was more like thirty minutes. I had time to kill while waiting for Sinclair to get ready to go another round. For a dead guy, his refractory period was pretty impressive. But not, y'know,
instant
. Besides, he was getting steadily more sulky about being left at the mansion every time I went to Hell. But that was an argument for another day. Another
year
, hopefully. “But it's like Father Markus said: the basics are pretty much always the same. Don't kill, don't steal, don't be a dick. The big diff is, it's not a hard-and-fast set of rules for Christians. Don't kill and don't steal apply across religions, or lack of religion.”

“I can't decide if that's brilliant or deepest blasphemy.
I'll pray on it and get back to you.” He would, too. He was always tracking me down to let me know he'd prayed on something, and how the power of prayer revealed to him my general incompetence. Blech. “It's true, you've covered the basics,” Markus admitted. “Though I'm not one hundred percent behind the ‘murder is okay in wartime' clause.”

“When
else
would murder be okay?”

“Meet the new boss,” Tina murmured, “same as the old boss.” At the stares, she replied, “Why are you looking at me like that? I enjoy the Who as much as the next woman.”

“Except that'd be me,” Cathie pointed out, “and I hate that shit.
The Simpsons
described the sixties perfectly: ‘What a shrill, pointless decade.' In fact, as more and more boomers end up in Hell, I'd like to move we forbid all bands who were in the top one hundred between 1960 and 1979. For their own safety.”

“I'm not the same as the old boss,” I said, stung. “I'm giving Hell a much-needed and long-overdue makeover, for free, I might add, which is something the old boss either never thought of or never cared about.”

“I'll guess it's the latter,” Markus replied. “So then. How to get this information to the masses?”

“I dunno. Put up flyers?”

“Isn't that a little late, though?” Marc asked. He was definitely more engaged in the meeting, which was really, really, really, really good. You know that whole “zombies need braaaaains” thing? It was true. But the movies got it wrong: zombies needed stimulation, not Dr. Hannibal frying up brains in butter. Marc needed to keep busy, to keep learning, to stay focused, to be
alive
. He was a zombie, but one who had been dead maybe a minute. Still (mostly) warm, still (for most intents and purposes) alive. He doesn't need to eat or drink; he'll enjoy his Caesar haircut forever; he'll never have to worry about cancer or Alzheimer's or arthritis. But if he went too long without
stimulation and got bored, or was away from me for too long, he'd start to rot.

Nobody wanted him to rot. Especially after all he'd done for us from the moment I talked him out of jumping from the rooftop, BBC Sherlock–style: embracing our vampire natures, backing us up regardless of the Big Bad du jour, risking his life, being turned into a vampire in the future and a zombie in the present . . . endless. Endless sacrifices.

So we put up with him dissecting mice on our kitchen counters and reading and writing at all hours of the night and doing Sudoku (when will that puzzle trend die?), cleaning out the attic by dumping all the old stuff into the basement, then reversing the process to clean the basement, and roaming the mansion at all hours, always looking for something to keep himself occupied. Not that I had anything against roaming; Sinclair, Tina, and I did it all the time. (We've tried to keep the lurking to a minimum.) But it was less creepy when vampires did it, which makes no sense but is true regardless.

“Right? Betsy?” I blinked and realized Marc had been waiting for an answer.

“Okay, I see what you mean. If we put up flyers—”

“We're not putting up flyers, for crying out loud,” Cathie muttered, staring down at the minutes. “What year do you think it is? Why not just round up all the town criers, have
them
disseminate the info?”

“—what good does it do? The people who ‘earned' Hell, for lack of a better word”—There were
kids
down here, for God's sake. No kid on the planet fucking deserved an eternity in a lake of fire and that was the fucking end of it. Although if a kid spent a century in a lake of fire, were they a kid still?—“they're stuck here now. Knowing the rules won't help them avoid Hell. It's too late. Isn't it?”

“It's still a starting point. As I said, most of them know what they did to deserve eternal damnation.” Father Markus
looked around the table at all of us. “But if I understand Betsy's plan correctly, they can learn what to do to earn their—I don't know how you'd say it—heavenly parole?”

“I can't decide if they go to Heaven,” I said, shocked. “It's absurd enough that I've got any say at all in what goes on in Hell! That's . . . you know.” I pointed at the Lego ceiling. “Up to the big guy. So to speak. Once they're paroled, they can leave here and go wherever.” Which reminded me: we needed some parole officers of the damned. I might not be as hard-core as the devil was, but I'm not about to release random spirits back into the wild without a way to keep an eye on them for a while. “Tina, while I'm thinking of it, could you make a note for us to talk to some actual parole officers, pick their brains?”

“Of course.” She tap-tap-tapped on her phone, which would have been impressive except I knew how much time she spent playing Cupcake Crash on the thing.

No one else had said anything, so I added, “Even if we could get the word to the living: ‘Hey, here are the new and improved Ten Commandments, even though that's not for me to say—oh, who am I? Just a vampire who runs Hell on the side—anyway, I've got no authority on earth over regular people and God is probably generally disgusted with me, but just abide by the new (except not really) commandments as best you can and maybe you won't end up with an eternal season pass to the Mall of America of the damned.'”

“That . . . probably won't work,” Tina said, ever the tactician. (That's what you call someone who's super tactful, right?)

“Betsy has a point about not choosing who goes to Hell,” Markus said. “That's completely out of her—your—purview.” He shifted his full attention to me. “All you can do is decide what to do with the souls who show up in your territory.”

I shivered. My territory used to be designer shoe stores
and Orange Julius drive-thrus. Then it was the whole of the vampire nation. Now it was the endless dimension that was Hell, with all its billions of inhabitants. If I kept getting these unasked-for promotions, I'd end up running the universe if I wasn't careful. And who needed
that
headache? I now perfectly understand why God created the universe and then basically went on vacation. I could almost picture the mind-set: “Here it is, you've got free will. Enjoy and good luck.” God: the first slack-ass.

“I guess it's God's purview,” I said at last. “And He's welcome to it! My end's hard enough. I wonder—d'you think He knows? About Satan being dead and me being undead but nominally in charge? Of course He does,” I answered myself. “He's omnipotent. Or Satan went up there to tattle on me.”

“Doubtful,” the Ant said. “She wouldn't set foot in Heaven for anything. They haven't spoken since the Fall.”

“A long time to sulk,” Cathie commented, and that made Father Markus bristle.

“It's a bit more complicated than a father-son spat over who put the ding in the bumper,” he said. “Lucifer upended the world order. Even if there could be forgiveness for such an act—and of course our Father can forgive all who genuinely repent—who's to say the Morningstar would want it?”

“Clearly she
didn't
want it,” Cathie replied. “Or at least, not in all the time she was running the show down here.”

(Clarification: Lucifer, also known as Satan 1.0, was a fallen angel and thus, apparently, genderless. But she'd always appeared to us in the guise of Lena Olin in terrific designer suits and killer footgear, so most of us were in the habit of referring to the devil as “she.” “It” was probably correct, but it sounded weird
and
mean. Though why I worried about sounding mean to the devil, of all creatures, was a mystery. You can take the Miss Congeniality out of the Miss Burnsville pageant, but you can't take the
Miss Burnsville pageant out of the Miss Congeniality. Or something.)

And all of this raised the question: where did the devil go when you killed her? Not Hell. Not Heaven. Where? Walmart? Where?

I shook my head. “I can't worry about that now. Too much other stuff on my plate.”

“Majesty, if we cannot stay focused, bringing change will be that much more difficult.” Tina always managed to say “focus, idiot!” without actually saying it, which I appreciated.

“Yes, focus, idiot,” Cathie said. I mentioned I appreciated Tina's tact, right? Tina's lips went thin and she opened her mouth, so I jumped in. (Figuratively. Not literally.)

“I
am
, but there's so much stuff to worry about! For one thing, I'm still figuring out how my kind-of onomatopoeia works.”

“Omniscience,” Tina corrected gently. “Onomatopoeia is when the name of a sound is its sound, my queen.”

“You lost me,” Marc said, and thank goodness, because I was trying to limit my stupid questions to under a dozen an hour. So far, no good.

“Like honk or quack or sizzle,” she explained, and you'd think that would have helped, but nope. “
Quack
really does sound like a duck's quack.
Splash
really does sound like a splash. Like that.”

“Whatever. So my problem is figuring out the other thing you said. Omniscience. I'm stronger here than I ever have been, which, for a vampire queen, is pretty great.” Queenhood, much as I liked to bitch about it, had its perks. Unlike other vampires, I could bear sunlight, could blaspheme from dawn 'til dusk, could gargle with holy water with no ill effects (except wondering how many people had had their hands in the holy water I just glugged, and then feeling ill). I could accessorize with crosses like a mideighties
Madonna and the only thing that would hurt would be knowing how tacky and mideighties Madonna it was.

In Hell, however, I was even more powerful. Which was cool, but terrible. Because . . .

“The power—Satan's abilities? Are they an executive perk, like a company car? I can use them because she isn't? They come with the job, like health bennies?”

“I think that's exactly it,” the Ant said. “You can't do such things up in your precious mansion, right?” Ooh, she couldn't resist getting in a zinger. The Ant deeply coveted my Summit Avenue mansion, but was usually better at hiding it.

I took her breaking of the Tenth Commandment (People: I
just
gave you a list of things not to do!) at face value. “Right. In the ‘real world,' for lack of a less lame phrase, I can only do vampire queen stuff. Down here I can do a lot more. But it's all over the place, and totally unreliable. Sometimes I can make things happen . . .” I waved my clipboard, which in addition to holding all the stats on the new arrivals also smelled like blueberries. I had made yesterday's clipboard smell like strawberries and planned to run the gamut of fruit scents before the month was out. It was important to have goals. “And sometimes not. Watch this. Rain. I want it to rain in here really hard.”

Cathie and Marc let out unanimous yelps of alarm, but even as they scrambled to take shelter beneath the Lego table, nothing happened.

“Oh, God, what does it rain in Hell?” Marc shrieked from the floor. “Acid? Blood? Clumps of pubic hair?”

“Right now it's not raining anything, even though I ordered it to rain in here. My point! Why do some commands work and some don't? Oh, come out from under there,” I added impatiently.

Only Father Markus had kept his shit together and remained seated. “Frustrating,” was his only comment, and was that a smile?

“Ya think? Quit grinning at me, you're awful.” He shrugged it off, which was fine because I hadn't meant it.

“Since it didn't rain pubic hair,” Marc said, climbing out from under the table and collapsing back into his chair, “I think it's as good a time to adjourn as any.”

Not much had been accomplished, but Father Markus seconded it almost before Marc had finished the sentence and, like that, I was paroled from another meeting. Yippee! I was like a kid let out of school! Except I was a kid (one of the youngest in the room, never mind the whole of Hell) let out of the bureaucracy of Hell, which was even better.

“Same time tomorrow?”

Oh, blech.

CHAPTER

SIX

“Excuse me, Mrs. Sinclair?”

Like an idiot I looked around for whomever she was talking to. Then I realized: “Oh. Me. It's me? Yes.”
Mrs. Sinclair. Mrs. Eric Sinclair. Mrs. Sink Lair. Mr. and Mrs. Sink Lair?

When I was little I was nervous about trying a kiwifruit. Fuzzy brown skin, green inside with icky-looking black seeds, it was some sort of fruit/Tribble hybrid and I had no interest in sticking it in my mouth. Nothing that looked that weird could be yummy.

But my mother hectored me until I bit into it. It was perfectly ripe, if not entirely sweet, with an odd texture that wasn't unpleasant, just strange to me. It took me a few seconds to decide if it was vile or delicious; I eventually settled on delicious, but only when I was in the mood for one. That was how it felt now, hearing someone call
me Mrs. Sinclair, which was my legal name even if I never, ever used it.

It was not that I didn't love Eric Sinclair. It was beyond love; I'd die for him and kill for him (and had). But our relationship was at once like and unlike any union between lovers. We were in love, yes. But we had a business relationship, too; we were co-monarchs . . . except not really. As the foretold vampire queen, I outranked the king. Tina had explained it to me: Sinclair was a king consort, I was a queen regnant. I reigned in my own right; Sinclair, to be blunt, was just along for the ride.

Like most lovers (but not many business partners), I had no secrets from him, and he didn't have very many from me (given his exquisite skills in the bedroom, there were some things I didn't want to know . . . hearing your lover's bang résumé wasn't at all romantic). And though we'd touched and kissed and caressed every inch of each other, I almost always called him Sinclair, and he always called me Elizabeth. It sounded formal (in his case) and flippant (in mine) to everyone else; to us, it was like a stolen kiss.

We also shared everything . . . kind of. I let Sinclair handle the tedious side of monarching—the petitions, the management of our property, the newsletter (hey, we were a modern vampire monarchy), while I handled the fun stuff, and Hell.

I was very specific about Hell: it was mine. Yes, I formed a committee to help me, but at the end of the day (and the beginning, for that matter) I was in charge. I wasn't a co-anything in Hell, and although that was the way I wanted it, I wasn't entirely sure why.

Sinclair and I trusted each other—except he knew I was a procrastinating shoe lover with a horror of paperwork and any kind of bureaucracy, and would do my best to wiggle out of anything that hinted it might not be one
hundred percent fun. And I knew he was loyal only to me . . . but always kept an eye on his own bottom line.

I had yet to let him have much to do with Hell. I'd brought him here once, but hadn't done so again. Unlike the vampire monarchy, there wasn't a foretold partner who would pop out of nowhere to help me. I had killed the devil and then taken the Antichrist's birthright. If I couldn't hold it on my own, I had no right to be here.

At least, I was pretty sure that was my reasoning. Bottom line, I was worried about giving him any real power. This was the man who had tricked me into making him king, after all. I loved him, but never forgot who he was.

All that to say I loved kiwis, sometimes, and my husband, all the time, but was wary of both.

“Mrs. Sinclair? Ma'am?”

“Right, right. Sorry. I was thinking about kisses and kiwis.”

“As you will.” I got a good look at the older woman who had hailed me from the direction of the Lego room. She was short, with a sort of hat/bonnet hybrid on her head, a long-sleeved blouse and floor-length skirt in sober gray and cream, with an equally sober darker gray shawl wrapped around her shoulders. The clothes were modern, if not trendy. And she looked vaguely familiar, though I was sure I hadn't seen her before. “My pardon for disturbing your thoughts of fruit and bussing.”

Eh? Oh, who cares.
“What can I do for you?”

“My name is Mary Ball Washington.” She paused, expectant. When all I did was blink at her, she adjusted her shawl a bit higher and looked crushed. “Oh. I thought . . . I thought you might know me.”

“I'm new here, I'm still learning everyone's names.”
The billions of names, cripes, give me a break, lady!

“Oh, not know me personally, but rather know my
purpose. My old friend Christina Caresse Chavelle—” My giggle stopped her. “Pardon?”

“Nothing.” Tina's real name, heh. I knew I was an immature asshat but every time I heard it, I pictured a romance novel cover from the eighties, complete with shirtless muscular tanned hero and the heaving bosom of a heroine whose name was probably something like Christina Caresse Chavelle. “You were saying?”

“Miss Chavelle asked me to escort your friend Dr. Spangler about. She wishes me to introduce him to ‘interesting people.'” She paused, then added, “I know several interesting people.”

“Huh?”

“Dr. Marc Spangler.” She paused, doubtless trying to gauge the depth of my ignorance. “The sodomite.”

“Jesus, don't call him that!”

She flinched away from me. “I— Forgive me. You seemed to have trouble placing— I mean, I thought that—”

“He's not in Hell because he's gay, y'know. He's in Hell because he's my friend!” Hmm. Better rephrase. “I mean, he's a volunteer. And it's nobody's business who he's attracted to.”

“Oh, I quite agree. A friend of mine was only interested in adhesive love—”

“Ad—” I made my mouth snap shut. Then made it open again. “Sorry, go on.”
Adhesive love. Jesus God.

“But he was a good man for all that,” she hastened to assure me, like I'd assumed otherwise. “He was a good Christian; he loved God. He would have taken the vows but he wanted children. He prayed for the devil's feelings to leave him . . .”

“Devil's feelings,” I managed with a straight face, “are the worst.”

“. . . to let him be with a woman as he wanted to be with a man. We both prayed,” she finished sadly, then peeked up
at me. “It didn't work. And now that I've been around for a bit, I've begun to understand why. Some things cannot be helped. I meant no disrespect to your queer fellow.”

I mentally groaned. But she was already skittish and old. So I let it go. “That's great, now we know who everybody's talking about. But what does Tina getting you to give Marc the Cool People Tour have to do with me?”

“Oh. Well.” Mary Ball Washington floundered for a moment. (
Flounder
, not
founder
. They're not interchangeable. Major pet peeves:
towards
instead of
toward
,
amongst
instead of
among
, and
founder
instead of
flounder
. Nobody was filling with water and sinking. Mary Ball Washington was verbally thrashing. Not sinking.) “As your underlings—”

“For your own safety, never call them that within earshot. Well, Dr. Spangler, anyway.” Tina probably wouldn't care. I'd even heard her refer to herself as a minion once. I dunno, she might've lost a bet.

“—it is a courtesy to bring such things to your attention, lest you wonder if she's usurping your lawful authority.”

“Time for a new rule, Mary Ball Washington. I don't have to know every little thing my underli— No, not that . . .”

“Lackeys?”

“No! My—my fellow committee members! I don't need to sign off on everything they're doing.” Especially something silly like Tina asking a local to give Marc a tour. Exactly the sort of thing I trusted Tina with while also not giving a shit about.

Cripes, Satan, micromanage much?
I knew Cathie and the Ant tried to head off a lot of these types of—petitioners, would they be? I made a mental note to be especially nice to Cathie, and a little nice to the Ant. “It's why I have a committee. Because the new boss isn't the same as the old boss, no matter what the Who said.”

She dropped her head so quickly I heard her neck creak
a little. “Of course, Mrs. Sinclair. My apologies for overstepping again.”

“No, no. It's good that you brought it up; it's something that everyone in Hell needs to know. It's gotta be understood that anyone on the committee is acting with my total permission.” My fervid, thankful, grateful permission. “I'll bring it up tomorrow at the next meeting. I guess that's gonna mean more flyers.”

She'd been standing with her face at an angle. Now she faced me straight on and the feeling that she looked familiar got stronger. Something about the hair . . . and the dour smile . . . “Your pardon, ma'am?”

I had a vision of her picturing literal flyers: souls soaring about Hell bellowing out the news of the day. Fun, but ultimately impractical. “Nothing. Have you been here awhile? In Hell?”

“Oh yes. Since 1789.”

“Yeah?” I gestured to her outfit. “But you're letting yourself look different?” That explained the modern materials, but the old-fashioned look. And the shawl. “Good for you.”

“I died in my . . .” She glanced around, then leaned in and whispered, “Night attire. I was delighted when I realized I could wear whatever I wished. It only took me seventy years to master.”

Hmm. Was it like any skill, then? Some people just had a knack for driving, for picking up foreign languages, for gardening. Did some people have a knack for the whole “my flesh was only a vessel, my spirit roams as I will it” thing, while for others it took longer? Should we be teaching classes in this stuff? Something else for tomorrow's (groan) meeting.

“You've been here awhile . . .” Minnesota politeness had me ready to add
I know it's none of my business, but . . .
so I squashed it. Anything anyone did here was now officially my business. I didn't have to apologize for asking questions. “What'd you do?”

“I blasphemed. And . . .” She took a breath, let it out. “I was not as good a mother as I could have been to my George.”

“What, you beat him?” Ugh, she didn't kill him, did she? She looked harmless but willful, like a church organist who ran everything behind the scenes, and she smelled like old cookies and powder. Which didn't mean shit; if I'd learned anything since dying the first time, I'd learned that looking harmless was no guarantee of
being
harmless.

“Of course I beat him! It was my duty, for does it not say, ‘He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes'?”

What am I, a game show contestant?
“Probably.”

“In point of fact I fear I didn't beat him enough. 'Twas only me, you know; my husband passed on when I was thirty-five, and left me with five children to raise and a plantation to run. I wasn't—there wasn't—there wasn't as much time for frivolity and tenderness. I had to be mother and father to him. I was . . .” She paused, visibly struggling for the words to explain to the newer, dimmer Satan. “. . . determined to have my way. In all things.”

“Okay. Well. Single motherhood is a bitch. My mom was one. But if all single mothers are doomed to Hell, I'd think it'd be a lot more crowded here.”

“No, no . . . I'm here because I blasphemed. And when my George was led astray by evil companions, I blamed God the Father and not my own weakness. It cost me my son.”

“Did he die?”

“Well, yes.” She regarded me with a puzzled smile. “It's been centuries.”

“Right, right. I mean, did he die because of anything you did?”

“He died because I didn't do
enough
. I must have told him a hundred times a hundred times—”

“So, a thousand times?”
Why not just
say
that?

“—not to go straight to dinner after chores. He was out in dreadful weather for hours inspecting the grounds, got miserably soaked, and then had dinner in his wet clothes! Death was inevitable! And it was my fault! And his.”

“So, while you're sorry you weren't nicer to him in general, you're also sorry you didn't nag him more?”

“Exactly. He was only sixty-seven. He had years left!”

“Uh . . .” This was awful, but it reminded me of the uproar when Joan Rivers died. Okay, the clinic was definitely negligent, but she was eighty-one. So while it was sad to hear she died, all the “gone too soon!” and “she had years left!” and “she could have been saved and gone on for years!” stuff didn't exactly ring true. Because: eighty-one.

Meanwhile, Mary Ball Washington was still bitching about her dead kid whom she'd successfully raised on her own and who'd gone on to live a long time.

“Showing up at Congress in a war uniform, really! Disrespectful
and
inappropriate. It was those fellows he knew from the war, you know—much of his nonsense can be placed at their door. Encouraging him to take chances; he was lucky he wasn't killed in the Seven Years' War. Or the Braddock disaster of '55!”

“Sounds stressful,” I agreed, then snuck a peek at my watch. Then remembered that since cell phones, nobody wore watches anymore. “Really stressful.”
This. This is why I should stop engaging with people in Hell.

“Was he brave?”

“I didn't ask—”

“Of course. Impetuous, rash? Of course! Some would say that his time in His Majesty's army allowed him to study their methods, and it did—it made him a much more dangerous traitor to King George III!”

“Um. What?”

“Who knew the Stamp Act of 1765 would lead to my son betraying his king and the eventual deaths of tens of
thousands? George Mason should have persuaded my boy to fall in line. The one good thing that man did was refuse to sign the Constitution. John Adams, Alexander Hamilton, von Steuben . . . troublemakers, every one. It's obvious. My poor son was misled by evil companions.”