Undead and Unwelcome (7 page)

was driving me so nuts, I was practically biting the tip of my tongue off so I wouldn’t

point out that Derik had made the same silly assumptions about vampires that we had

about werewolves. After calling us morons. “—explain what happened?” Eh? Aw, shit.

Michael was looking right at me. I jerked my foot away in time and Sinclair’s Kenneth

Cole-shod shoe clunked into the back of Michael’s desk. “Explain what happened?” I

repeated with what I hoped was an intelligent question on my face. “Yes, to the Council.”

Council? What council? That didn’t sound good at all. Nobody had said anything about a

council—I think. Damn. I really should be paying attention to the goings-on in my life.

“Can’t
you
tell them what happened? You’re the boss around here.” “No.” Click. Closed.

End of argument. I knew that tone—I’d heard it in my husband’s voice often enough—to

know when it was no good to protest. “We’ll be meeting on the grounds just after sunset

tomorrow. I’ll need all of your testimonies, so do not send one representative to speak for

the group. “Then what?” I asked nervously. He just looked at me, almost like he was sorry

for me. Somehow, that was even worse than his cool fury.

Dude,
Here I am again, shift over (and I managed to leave the hospital on time, a

miracle of parting-the-Red-Sea proportion), writing the day after Betsy and the others

flew away to Cape Cod to face whatever music there was to face. I’d asked to go and had

been gently refused. Jessica got to go, but then, it was her airplane.
That left Tina—as I

mentioned earlier, she was a sort of super-secretary to Sinclair—and Laura and me.
I

didn’t have a chance to go into Laura much before I had to leave for work (and grocery

shopping). Now I’ve got some time and, as it’s
daytime
, Tina won’t be lurking in a

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shadowy corner of the kitchen, waiting to startle me to death and then smoothly

apologizing.
So. Laura. A word or two about her, yes, please. Very, very nice girl. Young

. . . not even drinking age. She studied hard at the U of M and was a credit to her

parents. Excellent health, and conventionally beautiful if you liked slender, fair-skinned

blondes with terrific breasts, long legs, and big blue eyes.
She was also occasionally

homicidal and cursed (or was it more of an inheritance?) with an unbelievably bad

temper. When she’s upset about something, you can practically feel the air get heavier

and warmer. One thing I hated to see was Laura’s hair shading from buttercup yellow to

auburn, as it always did when she was infuriated.
According to the
Book of the Dead
, a

sort of vampire bible, Laura is fated to destroy us all, something Betsy seems to keep

overlooking or forgetting. Or forgetting on purpose (she’s not quite the ditz she’d like us

to believe . . . at least I think she isn’t).
A digression for a minute: the
Book of the Dead

was kept in the mansion’s library, on its own stand. Betsy didn’t talk about it much, but

she practically babbled about it nonstop compared to how much Tina and Sinclair

discussed it. So you can imagine how frustrating it was to just get a minor detail or two

about the vampire bible.
It was bound in human skin, and written in blood by a crazy

vampire a thousand years ago. Everything in it (so far) came true. And (here comes the

fun part!) anyone who read it too long went clinically insane. Scariest of all, Betsy had

tried to destroy it—twice—and it always found its way back to her.
I wasn’t dumb enough

to try to read it, but I did want a look at it. I waited for a night when I had the mansion to

myself (Betsy and the others were off trying to catch a serial killer—or maybe it was the

time that crooked cop set the Fiends free? Who could keep track of their nocturnal crime-

fighting habits? Well, it doesn’t matter now.), then went into the library.
I didn’t sneak. I

live here, too. I was not sneaking, nor being a sneak. I walked. I walked right up to the

stand. I reached out a hand. I wasn’t going to read it. I wasn’t. I just wanted to—
Wait.

Okay, I’m back. I had to take a second and go throw up. Which is what I did those few

months ago when I grasped the cover to flip the book open. I didn’t even get a good look

at the title page, never mind the table of contents, before I started vomiting blood.
As a

doctor, I found this to be a somewhat alarming symptom, especially since I had felt

perfectly fine ten seconds earlier. I made it to the nearest bathroom—thank goodness the

mansion’s got about thirty of them!—and, between bouts, called my friend Marty (part-

time EMT, full-time guy who could keep his mouth shut) for a ride to the hospital.
By the

time he got me there, I was fine again. His backseat was a mess, though. It cost me six

hundred bucks to get it clean again.
Sorry, dude, that was a major digression, not a

minor one. So that’s enough about the vampire bible, which I now prudently stay the holy

hell away from; let’s get back to Laura.
It’s hard to believe that a gorgeous sweet

Norwegian is the Antichrist. And even harder to imagine her destroying a cactus plant,

much less the entire world. When she’s blond, anyway.
When Betsy and Laura first

hooked up, we had no idea she even had a dark side (which was silly . . . don’t we all?).

Then she killed a serial killer. And then she beat a vampire almost to death. More

worrisome was the fact that she could have done much, much worse. Because Laura’s

weapons pop out of nowhere when she’s mad, and they show up express delivery from

hell.
And lately she’s been skipping church. She’d already been over here twice, and

Betsy hasn’t been out of the state even twenty-four hours. I think she’s lonesome. Scratch

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that—I was familiar with all the symptoms. I
knew
Laura was lonesome.
I also knew she

was extremely dangerous. But I know better than to try to open a dialogue with her about

the subject. Laura hated her birthright, her heritage, her mother. Hated knowing

someone had predicted she’d destroy the world almost a thousand years before she was

born. I was pretty sure she hated the fact that we all knew about it, too.
So. Tonight we’re

going out for drinks, and I’ll tease her and we’ll gossip about Betsy and Co. at the

nearest smoothie bar and then Laura will be herself again.
For a while.

The last thing we did before going to bed was set up Sinclair’s laptop— Right, Sinclair, I

forgot to explain that. I hardly ever call him Eric. He’s always been Sinclair to me (or Sink

Lair, when he’s really pissing me off), just as I have always been Elizabeth (yech!) to him.

I still can’t believe my mother stuck me with a first name like Elizabeth when
my last

name was Taylor.
What, did she lose a bet? Anyway, I was Betsy to everyone except the

man I loved. And speaking of the man I loved, he was rapidly typing something, probably

an update e-mail to Tina. Then he showed me one of Marc’s typically annoying e-mails,

which went like this:
Hey, girrrrl! miss you guys already, i mean WTF? Hope the furry

friends haven’t eaten any of you yet, LOL! love, marc
Oh, boy. Don’t even get me

started. Too late, I’m starting. What the hell was it about e-mail that made everybody

forget the stuff they learned in second grade, like capitalizing
I
and proper names, and

using periods? Hello? We all learned how to do this less than five years out of diapers!

And what was with all the increasingly stupid acronyms? Nobody with any sense would

dare send out a snail-mail letter written in that odd, juvenile style. No one would send a

business letter written like that. But I’ve seen executive VPs send out e-mails riddled with

spelling and punctuation errors and LOLs. Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, somehow

because it’s electronic mail, none of the basic grammar rules applied. Barf. Sinclair

obligingly vacated the desk chair for me. I plopped into it and kicked off my pumps.

However the werewolves might feel about us, they were pretty good hosts so far. This

was the most beautiful bedroom I’d ever seen. No, not bedroom . . . suite. A sitting room.

An office. A teeny kitchen. Two bathrooms. A living room with a piano in the corner. A

freaking piano, who lives like this? And a bed so gigantic I felt as small as a saltine cracker

when I lay on it. I clicked on REPLY and rapidly typed.
Marc, you nitwit, how many times

do I have to tell you, enough with the acronyms. I’m assuming since you made it through

college and medical school that sometime before you left for college someone mentioned

a cool new invention: punctuation. Try it sometime. You might like it.
Clicked on SEND.

Stretched in the chair like a cat, then got up and ambled over to my husband, who held his

arms out to me. He was smiling his sexy, somehow sweet smile and I could see the light

glinting off his fangs, teeth so sharp they made a rattlesnake seem like it had a mouthful of

rubber bands. I grinned back, kicked out of my clothes, and pulled the sheet back. As my

husband’s fangs sank into my neck and things began to go dark and sweet around the

edges of my brain, I had a thought:
What about werewolf hearing?
Shit on that, how

about their sense of smell, which was even better than a vampire’s? Even if they couldn’t

hear us, they could sure tell what we were doing. Then Eric’s fingers were gently parting

my thighs and stroking me in that luscious, insistent way he knew I loved, and I forgot all

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) about werewolf hearing. Hell, I’d be lucky if I didn’t forget my own name.

Dude!
You
will not
believe this. I was there, and I almost don’t believe it. And there’s no

way to pretty this up, so I’m just going to spell it straight out: a group of Satan

worshippers found Laura.
Yes! And yes, I know how it sounds! But it’s all true; my God, I

can hardly type I’m so excited/freaked out/ amazed.
Okay, so this is what happened.

Laura called and asked if she could hang out at the mansion, and of course I said yes. It

was daytime, so Tina was snoring away somewhere (not that she snored, or even

breathed, but you know what I mean). So into the mansion I come, only to be greeted by a

scene out of—of—shit, I have no frame of reference for this.
Real Satanists had

apparently tracked Laura down via astrology (not my field, so much of the explanation I

got later went right over my head). Apparently, just as there was a star of Bethlehem,

there is also a Morningstar, which shows up just before the Antichrist comes into her

maturity.
?????
Seriously, dude, I know how it sounds. A star? Laura’s own star, shining

down on the planet like a treasure map leading Satanists to our door? (And why not her

apartment? Why Betsy’s place?) A star that didn’t show until her maturity, what the hell

did that mean? The star didn’t show itself until she had a driver’s license? A passport?

Until she was legal drinking age? What?
Laura either didn’t know, or wasn’t saying,

pardon me while I evince a complete lack of surprise. And I suppose it doesn’t matter.

What matters is the star is here (I plan to dip into my savings first thing tomorrow and

buy a decent telescope to set up in the yard . . . I simply have to see this puppy for myself)

and people who have read the right books and worshipped the right demon and made the

right sacrifices (I’m guessing on that last one, but the movies can’t be all wrong, right?

Memo to me: Netflix
Rosemary’s Baby.
).
Anyway, the right people can now track Laura

down pretty much at will.
Which is why, when I walked into the house after a milk run, I

nearly tripped over the dozen people kneeling in front of Laura, who was blushing like a

tomato. A demonic tomato. I was instantly alarmed; she was so fire-hydrant red, so

incredibly flushed, I was afraid she was going to stroke out, and I almost dropped the

milk.
They had (not on purpose, I’m sure of that) backed Laura into a corner of the

kitchen and were moaning and praying.
Yeah. Praying. Praying to Laura.
I don’t know

what I should do with this information, not to mention the stuff that happened afterward.