“Bus-ted!”
“Right, but he wasn’t surprised I’d come back on my own.”
“No?”
“No.” It should have been comforting, but it made me feel bad. And a little scared. I was getting stronger by the month and he was paying me the compliment of assuming I could improve and grow in my new role, was openly and privately proud of me, proud to be my husband and my king. Me, I hadn’t dared bring him back to Hell after the first quick visit.
“Cindy Tinsman,” the Ant said, dragging us back to the topic at hand. I think it was the topic at hand, at least once the time thing sorted itself out. I looked down: Yep. The Hell watch was back.
“Yeah, thanks.” I raised my voice a bit. “I want Cindy Tinsman. Right now.”
“Um . . . hi?”
We all looked. And I knew her on sight—I was so much better with faces than names. I could remember our phone number from the house I lived in as a kid, but not the name of the mailman who came to our house almost every day. (Frank, I want to say? Bill? Karen? He or she had pretty muscular legs, whoever they were.) Sinclair said it was because my face perception was higher than my name retention, and that it was true of everybody, but especially me. It was a nice way of telling me I was an idiot.
“Ohhhh, Cindy,” I said, going from triumphant to sad in half a second. “Man, am I sorry to see you here.”
“Me, too,” she said and burst into tears. She rushed at me and the Ant went tense, but then she was clinging to me and crying on my shoulder. “I’m sorry I’m so so sorry you were right please I’m so sorry.”
“Stop that!” the Ant snapped. “That’s the Lord—well, Lady—of Hell you’re slobbering on, get your hands off her right now!”
“Nope,” Marc said, and he grabbed the Ant’s arm. From her wince, I was guessing he’d gotten in a good pinch before starting to escort her away. He excelled at those underarm-flab pinches; they stung like crazy.
“Marc, this kind of familiarity can’t be allowed—”
“Wow, I had no idea you even knew my name. And no one’s in charge of maintaining Betsy’s dignity, remember? She established that in the very first meeting.”
“It’d be an impossible task anyway,” my beloved stepmother snapped back.
“Yeah, I’m not touching that one. Besides, you gotta hear the backstory on this.”
“There’s no need to yank. Fine. And ouch, you ridiculous pervert.” She rubbed her arm, but didn’t pull out of his grip. “But I warn you, I’ve heard every sob story there is.”
“Not this one.”
Meanwhile, Cindy was still crying all over me, and I felt really, really bad about cutting her head off five or so weeks ago.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
FIVE OR SO WEEKS AGO
“What’s up? What’s going on?” I’d popped into the Peach Parlor, the small room just off the front hall that boasted peach wallpaper, carpeting, and furniture, thusly named because we were all low on imagination. “Is it a new Big Bad? Is it an old Big Bad? Or are we finally having that vodka intervention for Tina?”
“Never mind my vodka,” Tina warned through a smile.
“Where is everybody?”
“I shall endeavor not to take offense at that.”
I waved that away. “Aw, you know what I mean.”
“His Majesty will be through the door momentarily
(I shall be with you momentarily, my own.)
and this is official vampire king and queen business, and no concern of the others.”
“The others” would take exception, especially Marc, but in my ancient wisdom (I’d be hitting thirty-five pretty soon) I was learning to pick my squabbles. (Marc in a snit wasn’t exactly a battle. More like a nine-hour headache.)
Just then we heard the front door open and in bounded the king of the vampires, carrying two bulging bags of— Aw, no.
“Another flea market? Seriously? This obsession with other people’s junk is getting grosser by the week.”
“One man’s trash, and all that, my love.” He dropped the bags without ceremony—it was never about the stuff, just the trip to buy the stuff—and came into the parlor, bending to give me a hearty smack on the mouth. “Missed you, wife. You would have liked it.”
“That’s a lie and you know it. Only people furnishing their first apartment and retirees enjoy flea markets. I told you after the last one I was flea’d out, and I’m sticking to that. Those outdoor markets are like crack to you. Don’t make me cut up your credit cards! And your cash.”
It was all for show; I got almost as big a kick out of Sinclair enjoying the warmth of sunshine without the accompanying warmth of going up in flames.