Undead and Unforgiven(41)

“Tina.”

“Majesty.”

“Is this the four o’clock you were telling me about? The young lady and her uncle?”

“Yes.”

“You were downright coy about it,” he continued, and Tina smiled and winked at me. Eh? Coy? What?

“I think it might be a pleasant surprise, Majesty.”

“Really? For him, or for all of us? Fill me in,” I ordered, because I should at least look like I knew what was going on when the meeting started.

“Fill you in again, did you mean?” Tina asked with honeyed sweetness.

“Do you know what happens to a bottle of vodka when you throw it down the basement stairs?”

“I’ll be good,” she said quickly.

“You’d better, or the Cucumber vodka gets it.” But the doorbell rang just then

(donnnnnngggg GONNNNNGGGGGG)

so that was the end of extortion time. Too bad.

“Did we pay extra for the doorbell to sound so ominous?”

“Not at all, my own. I believe it came with the house.”

“Well, hooray for added bonuses.”

“Redundant, my dear.”

“Aw, shaddup.” He made a grab for me but, wise to his wicked ways, I managed to avoid it, and his deep chuckle practically made the room vibrate.

Before things could get interesting, and naked, Tina escorted our visitors into the room, but before I could do more than give them a quick once-over, Sinclair was crossing the room and exclaiming with real warmth, “Lawrence, hello!”

The vampire who’d come in with the cheerleader didn’t immediately extend his hand; instead he tilted his head down and dropped his gaze in a subtle bow of deference. Sinclair waved that away (I’d never seen him do that with any vampires besides Tina and me) and they shook hands. Then Sinclair turned to me. “My queen, permit me to introduce to you an old friend, Lawrence Taliaferro. Lawrence, this is Elizabeth.”

“Betsy,” I said, like I always do. (Only Sinclair calls me Elizabeth. And my mom when I’m in big trouble.)

I got the elegant head-bow treatment and then shook his cool, long-fingered hand. Lawrence was a couple inches shorter than me at about five foot ten, with brown hair swept back from his forehead and dark, deep-set eyes. He had a lush mouth and high cheekbones and appeared to be dressed for a funeral in a sober black suit, crisp white shirt, and brown paisley tie. His coat sleeves were cut long, brushing almost to his knuckles, and he had new black dress shoes shined to a high gloss. Etienne Aigner, I decided after a peek. Very nice.

He could have been as old as he looked—late thirties—or five centuries beyond that. I couldn’t tell at first sight, not the way Sinclair and Tina could. They could just sort of get a sense of a vamp’s age, but not me. Of course, if they looked barely drinking age but started ranting about the fascism of the Prohibition years, that was usually a pretty good tip that they were eligible for AARP membership. But vampires weren’t always so obliging about revealing their long years, and it was one of the few things Tina and Sinclair could do that I couldn’t. Not everything about being the queen was something that was automatically easy. It was kind of comforting.

“This is my young companion—”

Young companion? Okay, he’s old.

“—Cindy Tinsman.” His tone was formal and there was a faint hint of a Southern accent. He beckoned the girl forward and she came, sticking close to his side. She looked intimidated but wildly excited, her pretty tip-tilted dark eyes gleaming as she took everything in. Her hair was razor straight, her bangs so perfectly trimmed you could use them as a ruler. She had shaved part of the left side of her head

(when will that awful trend die? curse you, Miley Cyrus!)

and let the other side swing to about shoulder level. She was in jeans, sneakers, a sweater, and a Simley Spartans high school jacket with a cheering letter.

“Friends with the family?” Sinclair asked, nodding at her.

“Her great-great-grandfather saved my life. I keep an eye on his descendants for him.”

Now see, this was the cool thing about some vampires. The good ones used their powers for—well—good. It was nice to know Tina’s experience with Sinclair’s family wasn’t an isolated case, and I liked Lawrence a lot just for that.

“And Miss Chavelle, I see you back there. Nothing to say to an old friend?”

“Lawrence,” Tina said demurely (!), offering her hand. He bent over it but didn’t quite kiss it (apparently that was a huge etiquette no-no in some circles, or in 1860). “Always a charmer.”

“Not enough of one, I fear,” he replied, straightening. The black suit made him seem taller than he was, and the cultivated, barely there accent made him sound like a cheerful undertaker: happy, but not too happy.