Undead and Unforgiven(18)

“And it’s Mary Ball, Betsy. Jeesh. Get with the program.” To her: “There’s a monument and a hospital named after you. It’s so nice to meet you!”

She cleared her throat and—whoa. Was that a blush on her wrinkly cheeks? “Foolish aggrandizing. And the pleasure is mine, Dr. Spangler. I thank you for not holding my son’s crimes against me.”

“Crimes? Right, right, you were a loyalist . . . okay, back then, yeah. But don’t you see? You made him the man he is! Was. Where do you think he got that whole ‘lead by example’ thing? From you! Why do you think he called out Britain for their dick moves with the Stamp Act and the Townshend Acts?”

This whole conversation is proof that I didn’t have to be here for any of it. Ugh, he’s still going on. What’d this Townshend guy ever do to him?

“Who taught him to stick up for the little guy? You! You’re a huge reason why America’s been kicking ass since before there was an America.”

Definitely a blush. I could see her revising her opinion on Marc in particular and sodomites in general. “Oh, well,” she managed, then giggled. Giggled! So very, very, very weird to see a female version of the guy on the one-dollar bill giggling with a gay zombie. “I could only do my best and God’s will, like any woman.”

“What, you’re a Revolutionary War buff now?” I wasn’t feeling pissy because they were ignoring me. I wasn’t! I had honest curiosity about whether or not Marc was a Revolutionary War buff.

“I minored in eighteenth-century American history,” was his absent reply as he extended an elbow for Dame Washington to clutch with her gnarled fingers. “Madam, I can’t wait to meet people you think are interesting.”

She chortled in response and began to lead him away, which simultaneously relieved and irked me. “Okay, well, see you later!” I said loudly. “And we’ve established I don’t need to be present for this kind of stuff, right?”

Dame Washington stopped dead (not really), turned, gifted me with a warm, slightly yellowed smile (were her teeth wooden, too?). “Thank you so much, Mrs. Sinclair, for allowing this.” She dipped her head in a respectful nod, the twenty-first-century version of a curtsy, I figured. “If I can assist any other committee members, or you, in any way, I hope you’ll call on me.”

“Mrs. Sinclair! Oh, that’s wonderful!” Marc’s delighted shriek drowned out my muffled groan. “Oh, that’s worth any amount of tedium. I’m going to use that constantly. I’m buying her so much stuff with her name on it.”

“No need!” I called loudly, to their rapidly retreating backs. Sinclair had paid off all Marc’s student loans, so the son of a bitch had actual disposable income he could piss away on stuff I didn’t want. It wasn’t an idle threat!

“Engraved stationery is always a thoughtful and practical gift for a lady,” Dame Washington suggested, because my life wasn’t weird and stressful enough. “Or monogrammed handkerchiefs.”

“No, really! I’m all set, guys. Got everything I need and then some.”

“Engraved everything! Monogrammed everything!” Marc replied grandly as they went far, far away. Or so I hoped. “Towels, toilet paper, iPhone cases, luggage tags!”

Engraved stationery and monogrammed toilet paper. Jesus wept. Or maybe that was only me.





CHAPTER

SEVEN

I did the Being Seen thing for a while, on Sinclair’s advice

(“The denizens of Hell should know their new queen, though if any should be bold enough to attempt familiarities with your delectable self, I insist on the privilege of making them suffer for it.”

“Aww, you’re so cute. You’re like an undead Fred Flintstone.”)

and it wasn’t terrible. I strolled around with my hands clasped behind my back, trying to look unconcerned and, I dunno, regal or evil or regally evil and like someone whose delectable self was never to be messed with.

Most of them were too shy or terrified to talk to me, or even meet my gaze, but I caught a lot of glances out of the corner of my eye, usually from people using the corners of their eyes. I ended up in one of Hell’s food courts, stepped up to the Orange Julius counter, and ordered a medium orange. (Anything in an Orange Julius that wasn’t orange or Julius wasn’t an Orange Julius. Strawberry Banana Julius just sounds dumb.)

“Um . . . ma’am . . . you must know . . .” The girl behind the counter, who looked like a young lunch lady crossed with the wardrobe from Flashdance (leg warmers! baah-ha-ha!), made a vague gesture behind her at the big shiny Julius dispenser. “It’s not going to . . . I mean, it might look like what you ordered, but I wouldn’t drink it.”