Undead and Unforgiven (17 page)

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

“Seriously with this?” I'd stepped out on our porch to see over a dozen people standing in our front yard, and two—no, three—news vans. Most of them had microphones or cameras and they were all pointed in my direction. Laura, standing beside a grim-looking fellow holding an old-fashioned notebook and pen, helpfully volunteered, “That's her. That's Elizabeth Taylor, the vampire queen.”

I shot her an incredulous look just as the pack swarmed. Startled, I automatically took a step backward; I did
not
need these guys getting within smacking distance, or even barely touching distance. I groped and grabbed the closest thing to hand. “Back. Get back! I mean it!” I jabbed at the media and then realized what I was jabbing with: one of the pitchforks my asshole roommates kept leaving around. I groaned and tossed the pitchfork into the corner of the porch. Laura must have been thrilled: I'd just given
her great footage for the “my sister's evil and must be exposed” campaign.

“Don't let my lack of pitchfork make you think you can swarm again. I mean it! Back.
Off
. D'you think the whole private property thing, it's—what?” This time I stepped back into Sinclair's chest and only then realized he'd followed me. His hands steadied me as I continued. “You think it's not so much the law as a guideline?”

The response I got was a babble of questions, all along the lines of “So apparently you're a vampire: can you confirm that and how do you feel about that?” I pulled myself free of Sinclair's steady hands so he wouldn't have to keep pretending we weren't furious with each other.

Man, that was nice. His hands on my hips. I'd missed that; I'd missed him. We'd been freezing each other for three days, and it felt like three decades. Could there be any fixing this? I still felt the same way, that Sinclair + Hell = Armageddon, and not the good kind. It was—

“Ms. Taylor? Ma'am? You have a death certificate on file; can you explain that?”

Oh. Right. Throng of journalists currently trying to interview me. “It was a joke . . . obviously, since I'm standing here in front of you. And again: seriously? C'mon, guys.” I took a step forward and looked up at the frigid sky; it was late winter but the sun was shining. “Shouldn't I be going up in flames about now?” I pointed to my husband, who was po-faced. “Shouldn't he?”

Excellent, Elizabeth. Keep avoiding the questions and manufacturing scorn. Later, if it matters, it can be argued you did not lie
.

Oh. Right. Yes, that was definitely part of my plan and not at all because I was honestly flustered and incredulous and had no fucking idea how to handle this.

More babble, broken by the man standing next to Laura:
“Bring out the other one. Your assistant. Prove ordinary vampires can tolerate sunlight. Not just the king and queen.”

Whoa. Okay, I knew Laura's obnoxious campaign included snippets about our lives that were none of the public's business. Those snippets included everything that came out of her mouth while on camera. But these people were actually paying attention to the details! They knew Sinclair and I were special; they knew regular vampires were vulnerable to sunlight and fire. For the first time I was more frightened than pissed. Did today's media really have nothing better to do than troll YouTube videos put up by gorgeous blondes?

Don't answer that.

“I don't have to prove anything, pal. That's on you guys. Do
not
take that as a dare! Besides, you— Sorry, what's your name?”

“Ronald Tinsman.”

“Right, Ronald Tinsman. Do you really not have anything better to do than stand in my yard babbling about vampires and freezing your ass off?”

“No,” he replied quietly.

“Oh.” Well,
that
took the wind out of my sails. “Well. Okay, then.”

Tinsman. I knew that name. I'd heard it in recent, unpleasant circumstances. He didn't look or sound familiar and was dressed in midwinter casual: jeans, boots, a partially unzipped parka revealing a green and black flannel shirt. He was pale and puffy, with thinning brown hair and an exhausted gaze. But there was something about his eyes . . . dammit, where'd I know this guy from?

Sinclair must have caught the stray thought, because . . .

I doubt Mr. Tinsman is interested in our condolences on the loss of his daughter to vampirism and beheading.

“Oh,
fuck
!” I managed, and the shriek of microphone feedback nearly deafened me. “Argh, sorry!” I shook my
head like a dog at a whistle to clear the ringing. “Wait, I'm not sorry. You're all trespassing and this is a stupid story. Isn't there a war going on somewhere? I'm almost positive there's a war somewhere. It's not the war on drugs, we've pretty much given up on that one . . .”

“What do you have to say about your father giving sworn affidavits testifying to the fact that vampires exist?”

“My
father
?” Tilt! Too much to process. For the first time ever, I longed to be back in Hell. “You mean the asshat who faked his death to get out of spending time with his family because he didn't care for the paperwork that comes with divorce proceedings?” I glared at Laura, who just shrugged. Suddenly this was making a lot more awful, awful sense. The Antichrist, in her continuing efforts to find the adult equivalent of a Daddy and Me class, had teamed up with my dad to expose me and mine to the world. And for what?

Revenge for imagined slights. Both of them. Pathetic. Both of them.

“My father and my half sister have at least one thing in common,” I said shortly. “They're both liars.” This was technically true, though more so in my dad's case than Laura's. The Antichrist was a huge fan of lying by omission, then convincing herself it wasn't like that.

“But what about the allegations of—”

“This unscheduled interview with you pack of trespassers is over. And this is private property. All of you get out. Not
you
, Laura. We need to talk.”

Understatement.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I was so pissed, so shocked by what had just happened, I couldn't get any volume or inflection. My outraged question came out like a little flat statement.

Laura shrugged and leaned against the back of the love seat. We were in the Peach Parlor, the first room I could drag her into once the front door closed. Sinclair hadn't tried to follow us in, which was confusing. Still mad at me? Assuming he wasn't invited to the ass chewing because he wasn't a blood relative? Didn't dare be in the same room with her because of the overwhelming urge to strangle? I could relate to the last one at least.

“Laura! Answer the question, what's wrong with you?”

“Nothing's wrong with
me.
Besides, I'm just doing what you told me.”

“God, you're an
infant
sometimes, you know that? It wasn't a dare and you damned well know it!”

“It was a taunt,” she replied. “You were taunting me. You're always taunting me.”

“Taunting, huh? That word-a-day toilet paper is really working out for you.”

“See?”

I was pacing back and forth in front of her, trying not to rip my own hair out. Harshing my highlights would help no one; looking less attractive would help
no one
. “And how the hell do you know Cindy Tinsman's dad?”

“We both volunteer at Fairview.”

“Of course you do.”

Of course they did. My entire postdeath life consisted of huge, life-changing pieces of luck: sometimes good, sometimes bad. This time it was definitely the latter.

“And don't get any ideas,” she warned, looking far too comfortable for the trouble she was in. “My people have instructions on what to do if I mysteriously disappear. You can't do anything to me while the world is looking over your shoulder.”

“You're definitely watching too much television.” I rubbed my forehead and added, “Walk me through this insanity of yours. You and Cindy's dad know each other, and somehow you found out what happened to his daughter—”

“Happened to?” She snorted. “You're making it sound like she was caught in a thunderstorm. You decapitated her after turning her.”

“I didn't turn her! And Sinclair didn't, either, and neither did Tina—”

“One of your filth,” she said with a flick of her fingers. “It's on you.”

I ground my teeth. She had a point. With great blah-blah came great blah-blah.

“I was the only one who would listen to him. And together we decided to expose you. He's got media contacts, and I've got plenty of—”

“Satan-worshipping staff,” I interrupted. “I'll bet you didn't mention to Mr. Tinsman that you're the Antichrist.”

“I did, actually,” was the calm reply, and I nearly walked into the wall (probably should slow down my pacing).

“You did? Really?”

“Of course. We can't be partners without transparency.”

“And you think him being numb means he's fine with that.”

For the first time, she faltered. “He's not— I mean, yes, he's grieving. But he knows I'm a force for good, despite my birthright, like he knows you're a force for evil, despite yours.”

I stopped pacing and stood in front of her. “No,” I said bluntly. “He's lost his wife and daughter in a very short time. His wife died of cancer while he was helpless and could only watch, and his daughter was recently murdered in a particularly nasty way, because a lifelong friend of his family happened to be a vampire. You could have set yourself on fire and waltzed with a grizzly bear and he'd have had the same reaction: ‘Yeah, okay, sounds good, I don't care.'”

“I don't—”

“Yeah, that's just right. You don't. Oh, say, where's our dear old daddy-o?”

“He—” She realized she didn't know, and closed her mouth. I was too irked to feel much triumph.
God, what an idiot. Both of them. Must be a genetic thing. Curse. Whatever
.

“You didn't even notice he wasn't here, did you? Too busy preening for the cameras. He ditched you. And that, little sister, is our father in a nutshell. All talk, no follow-up. He's made a career out of terrible choices that he can't stick with.”

“He's scared of you! And he's right to be scared. I said I'd protect him—”

I almost giggled.

“—and when I told him my plan he thought it was a wonderful idea. He
wanted
to help. He helped finance the operation.”

“With his ill-gotten gains. But hey, the ends justify the et cetera, right, Laura?”

“You just can't stand that he wants to help me expose you. He had to fake his death just to get any peace.”

I sighed. Laura had an amazing ability to interpret all my actions as evil, and all our evil dad's actions as good. And her own intentions were, in her mind, always golden. “Yeah, he committed fraud for the greater good. Except not really.”

“And why do you suppose he did that?” she asked in an exaggerated let's-find-the-answer-together tone.

“Because he's a raging coward who thrives on ducking familial responsibility?”

She glared. “That's our father you're speaking of.”

“I know.” I could feel my shoulders slump. Exhausted and it was barely noon. “That's why it's so awful.”

“He did it because he was afraid of you.”

“Oh, Jesus-please-us.” I rolled my eyes hard enough to hurt. “He can't think I'd ever hurt him.”

“You threatened to kill him!”

“Mmm . . . doesn't sound like me. No, I'm pretty sure I never— Oh. Wait. Huh.” It was all coming back to me, like those nightmares where you're naked and tardy and haven't studied for the test and everyone's throwing tomatoes at you. “Fine, I did threaten him. Don't look at me like that; it was a stressful couple of days, took me a second to remember. Do
you
remember every conversation you've had in the last two months?”

She took a breath and put her hands behind her back. I grinned; in her mind she was throttling me. I've been
seeing that look on people's faces for decades. “So you admit it. You know he doesn't trust you!”

“Wait, the guy who
faked
his own
death
is the one having trust issues? Jeepers, who'd have thought?”

“He still wanted to help me. He was so happy to see me,” she babbled, lost in the happy memory of our father pretending he cared. “He was on board from the start—he thought telling the truth about you was a wonderful idea.”

“He thought revealing he'd faked his death and committed insurance fraud was a wonderful idea?”

“He— What?”

“Moron!” I'd leaned down and shouted it into her face, and watching her flinch was deeply satisfying. “He broke the law! It's a felony, dumbass! He'll be lucky if he's
only
sued. They could slam his ass into Stillwater for—for—”

“Up to twenty years and a fine of up to one hundred thousand dollars in the state of Minnesota,” the doorway said, except not really.

“Oh, you might as well get in here,” I said, resuming my pacing.

To my surprise, Dick led the charge: “You're pathetic.” Tina stretched on her tiptoes to peek over his shoulder and nodded in agreement. The others were crammed in behind them (narrow doorway).

Laura said nothing, just raised her eyebrows.

“She's only ever welcomed you,” he continued, presumably referring to me, “and occasionally called you on your shit.” Definitely referring to me.

“Not her job,” Laura snapped back.

“It by God ought to be someone's job! Sorry, Tina.”

“It's fine.” The rest had come in and were glaring en masse at Laura, who should have been less irritated and more afraid. “Understandable.”

“I can't wait until someone catches you flinching at the Lord's name on camera,” Laura said.

“You underestimate our resources,” was Sinclair's cool reply. “And you underestimate our queen, as ever.” In small rooms he always seemed taller than he was, and if Laura wasn't exactly cowering (she got points for that, if nothing else) she was definitely in his shadow. In
all
ways. “You think you're the only person in ten thousand years to try to expose us? This is nothing new. You're nothing new. There's not one original thing about you, not a unique thought in your head. Everything about you is a cliché, including this childish resentment you have for your older sister. I'd pity you, Laura, if you warranted it.”

Whoa.

That one must have hurt, because she didn't engage. Just stared at him for a long moment, then turned to me. “They can't help you,” she hissed, her mouth turning down, her eyes going narrow. “You like to flaunt your friends—”

“I really don't.” Where was
this
coming from? “Having friends isn't the same as flaunting them.”

“—and pride yourself on complaining you have to do things you don't like, then shoving those things off on friends and complaining
more
, for some reason.”

Okay, that
did
sound like me. But c'mon. Was all this really happening because the Antichrist thought I had a lousy attitude?

“They can't help you this time; they've all got secrets, they've all got too much to lose. Didn't you notice how they didn't all rush out into the yard with you? Just the one you've—the vampire you've enslaved with your—your—”

I cut her off, amused in spite of myself. She was neck-deep in a plot to expose and betray me, and she couldn't say the words. “Are you trying to infer Sinclair's pussy-whipped?”

“I imply;
you
infer.”

“Yeah, like I said.”

“Shut up! Don't you understand what's happening?”

“Kind of?” Okay, even I wasn't this dim, but it was doing interesting things to Laura's blood pressure and, for that reason alone, was worth pursuing. And the others were mercifully silent, except for Marc's muffled snort (cut short by Tina's elbow to his ribs).

Laura puffed a hank of perfectly golden hair out of her face with a frustrated blast:
pfffttt!
“Dick's a cop, for heaven's sake; he could have run them off in thirty seconds. But he stayed inside. I out-and-out told Jessica what I was up to; I even offered her and her husband shelter so they could avoid the fallout—they're only guilty by association, they're not undead—and she couldn't be bothered to pass it on. If she had, you wouldn't be so shocked.”
Wait,
what?
Don't turn around and glare at Jess, don't turn around and glare at—
“None of them came to your aid; they just cowered inside, hoping you'd fix this and knowing you couldn't.”

“I'm having trouble following your villain rant. Are you doing this because you think I'm inherently evil, because I have a lousy attitude, because you resent my friends, because you don't like my friends, because you don't like your brother-in-law, because you hate your birthright, because you regret tricking me into taking your birthright, or because you think this will win you Daddy's love?” At her furious silence, I added, “It's at least one of those, though, right?”

She stood and smoothed her (immaculate) jeans, ready to leave now that she'd ruined my week/month/decade. “You've got a nasty way of making morals sound ridiculous.”

I laughed at her. (It was either that or burst into furious tears.) “It's hilarious that the
Antichrist
used ‘morals' and ‘ridiculous' in the same sentence.”

She was halfway to the door by then but checked and turned at my words. “They'll see you for what you are,
you know. Everyone will. Then they'll destroy you. Your friends can't help you. Your father won't help you. You'll just have to go to Hell. And stay there forever.”

She left.

We let her.