Undead and Unforgiven(31)
Her lovely nostrils flared. “Sinclair is not—”
“And that’s fine. It’s good, even! You won’t believe me, but I’m glad nothing too terrible has ever happened to you. Comparatively speaking. Meanwhile, one fucked-up vampire killed my husband’s whole family and he gave his life to avenge them. He grew up on a farm; he loved the outdoors. And he turned his back on everything to make their killer pay, knowing he’d never see any of them again in life or the afterlife. And now, after almost a century, he can be outside again. He didn’t look for it, he never expected it, he was glad to be in love and not alone, and then suddenly he could bear the light. Not just sunshine. God’s love.”
She opened her mouth but I cut her off. “And who are you to decide Sinclair’s not worthy of any of it? God doesn’t seem to think so. If the big guy had a problem with Satan granting my wish, He sure never stepped in to put a stop to it. Like it or not, Sinclair’s now a creature of the day and the night.”
For a minute I wondered why I was bothering. Was she listening? Did she even care? But never let it be said she was clueless because no one took the time to explain. She was still there, at least. Still listening.
“I don’t expect you to acknowledge it, Laura, and I sure as shit don’t think you’ll understand it, but Sinclair’s free in a way he hasn’t been since he was a teenager. Anyone else would be happy for him. But not the Antichrist. All you see is an evil vampire using the church for some nefarious end. He could cure cancer and you’ll always see the bad, and none of the good.”
She was affecting boredom now, staring over my shoulder like this was all so tedious. And maybe it was. When I was in church, I was usually being lectured, not the one doing the lecturing. And is there anything more yawn inducing than hearing someone go on and on about how super terrific their sweetie is?
“Yeah, yeah, fine, hearing someone babble about how wonderful the love of their life is can be so dull. Bottom line, you’ll never understand the true bond between . . . What? What are you grinning about?”
“Your sneaky wretch of a husband.”
“You didn’t listen to a word I said! You’ve filed him under Evil Brother-in-Law, and no matter what he does, that’s how you’ll always see him.”
“I think he’s a sneaky wretch because he’s a sneaky wretch.”
“I’m doing you the favor of your life and not mentioning any of this to him—”
She grinned, her gaze finally coming back to me. “I think you should mention all of it. Right now.”
Dammit.
“He’s across the street, isn’t he?”
The Antichrist didn’t answer, just giggled into her palm.
Dammit!
I whirled and there he was, sliding out of the driver’s side of his silver Lamborghini, my least favorite of his cars because it looked like a giant electric shaver on wheels, and walking across the street to join us. In the backseat I saw two small, sleek black heads: he’d brought the puppies, too. My humiliation was complete.
“I can’t believe you and the puppies have been stalking me!”
He stopped short and had the nerve to give me a reproachful look. “I would never.” He sounded deeply serious and deeply pissed, which made me feel (deeply) guilty.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“There’s no need to stalk you. All your cars are bugged.”
“Nnngghh.” Rage stroke. Inevitable after the drawn-out come-to-Jesus meeting with Laura. I knew he bugged my car once in a while, usually when the Big Bad of the month had yet to be defeated/killed/banished. But as a general rule? All the damn time? Ho hum, I’m bored and thirsty, let’s see where Betsy drove today . . .
“And possibly your phones.”
“Sinclair! I’m the queen regent. You’re the consort! I should be bugging you.”
“Regnant, darling.” He was beside me on the sidewalk now, wearing one of his dark designer suits, a tailored navy shirt, a silk navy tie with little red skulls (a Christmas gift from me), and his deep gray Belstaff coat, which I definitely didn’t buy for him because it’s what Benedict Cumberbatch wore on Sherlock. He raked Laura with a cool, unfriendly gaze, then gave his attention to me. “I should adore it if you bugged me.”
“Well, I won’t,” I said, instantly abandoning that plan. “Not if you want me to. The point is that it should be something you don’t like. And we are not done talking about this! Except we are, right now, just for a little while, because Laura and I— Oh, what? What?” Laura was looking over my shoulder again and, as God was my witness (and He was, probably, since we were hanging out in one of His houses), I was afraid to look. I heard car doors slamming, saw Sinclair’s refusal to turn around—whatever it was, he knew exactly what was happening, or knew it would plunge him into more trouble, or both. He was playing stoic, hoping it’d be like playing safe. His refusal to budge told me everything.