Undead and Unforgiven(62)
“Oh, fuck!” I managed, and the shriek of microphone feedback nearly deafened me. “Argh, sorry!” I shook my head like a dog at a whistle to clear the ringing. “Wait, I’m not sorry. You’re all trespassing and this is a stupid story. Isn’t there a war going on somewhere? I’m almost positive there’s a war somewhere. It’s not the war on drugs, we’ve pretty much given up on that one . . .”
“What do you have to say about your father giving sworn affidavits testifying to the fact that vampires exist?”
“My father?” Tilt! Too much to process. For the first time ever, I longed to be back in Hell. “You mean the asshat who faked his death to get out of spending time with his family because he didn’t care for the paperwork that comes with divorce proceedings?” I glared at Laura, who just shrugged. Suddenly this was making a lot more awful, awful sense. The Antichrist, in her continuing efforts to find the adult equivalent of a Daddy and Me class, had teamed up with my dad to expose me and mine to the world. And for what?
Revenge for imagined slights. Both of them. Pathetic. Both of them.
“My father and my half sister have at least one thing in common,” I said shortly. “They’re both liars.” This was technically true, though more so in my dad’s case than Laura’s. The Antichrist was a huge fan of lying by omission, then convincing herself it wasn’t like that.
“But what about the allegations of—”
“This unscheduled interview with you pack of trespassers is over. And this is private property. All of you get out. Not you, Laura. We need to talk.”
Understatement.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I was so pissed, so shocked by what had just happened, I couldn’t get any volume or inflection. My outraged question came out like a little flat statement.
Laura shrugged and leaned against the back of the love seat. We were in the Peach Parlor, the first room I could drag her into once the front door closed. Sinclair hadn’t tried to follow us in, which was confusing. Still mad at me? Assuming he wasn’t invited to the ass chewing because he wasn’t a blood relative? Didn’t dare be in the same room with her because of the overwhelming urge to strangle? I could relate to the last one at least.
“Laura! Answer the question, what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me. Besides, I’m just doing what you told me.”
“God, you’re an infant sometimes, you know that? It wasn’t a dare and you damned well know it!”
“It was a taunt,” she replied. “You were taunting me. You’re always taunting me.”
“Taunting, huh? That word-a-day toilet paper is really working out for you.”
“See?”
I was pacing back and forth in front of her, trying not to rip my own hair out. Harshing my highlights would help no one; looking less attractive would help no one. “And how the hell do you know Cindy Tinsman’s dad?”
“We both volunteer at Fairview.”
“Of course you do.”
Of course they did. My entire postdeath life consisted of huge, life-changing pieces of luck: sometimes good, sometimes bad. This time it was definitely the latter.
“And don’t get any ideas,” she warned, looking far too comfortable for the trouble she was in. “My people have instructions on what to do if I mysteriously disappear. You can’t do anything to me while the world is looking over your shoulder.”
“You’re definitely watching too much television.” I rubbed my forehead and added, “Walk me through this insanity of yours. You and Cindy’s dad know each other, and somehow you found out what happened to his daughter—”
“Happened to?” She snorted. “You’re making it sound like she was caught in a thunderstorm. You decapitated her after turning her.”
“I didn’t turn her! And Sinclair didn’t, either, and neither did Tina—”
“One of your filth,” she said with a flick of her fingers. “It’s on you.”
I ground my teeth. She had a point. With great blah-blah came great blah-blah.
“I was the only one who would listen to him. And together we decided to expose you. He’s got media contacts, and I’ve got plenty of—”
“Satan-worshipping staff,” I interrupted. “I’ll bet you didn’t mention to Mr. Tinsman that you’re the Antichrist.”
“I did, actually,” was the calm reply, and I nearly walked into the wall (probably should slow down my pacing).
“You did? Really?”