Undead and Unforgiven(61)

“No need.” Oooh, Sinclair was as cool as Fur and Burr sitting on ice cubes. “She’s currently holding a press conference in our front yard.”

Because of course she is.





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.