Undead and Unforgiven(74)

“Totally understandable, dread queen, think nothing of it.” This with an admirably straight face.

“This doesn’t mean I’m not sad about you leaving,” I explained, and I was doing so from the floor, because I’d promptly sat and started releasing the shoes from their prisons of box and tissue paper, while also wrenching my socks off so I could yank the new shoes on my willing feet. If feet could feel emotions and be happy, mine were. “Because I am. But this makes it slightly—slightly—easier to— Damn, how great do these look?” I’d slipped them on and now stretched out my legs to admire them.

“I don’t get it,” Dick said. “They’re black high heels. I’m glad you’re glad, but they’re black high heels. There’s a million of them. You’ve got at least five pairs yourself.”

“Oh, Dick, you adorable moron, if I have to explain then you’ll never get it. And they’re black and bone high heels.” How to tell him they’d always look great, they’d go with almost everything, that I’d wear them all the time for that reason alone, but even better, I’d wear them because every time I saw them I would remember how much my friend loved me.

“That makes sense.”

“Didn’t realize that was out loud.” I’d clambered back to my feet with a helpful yank from Marc. “Maybe if you guys get some peace and quiet in the new place you’ll be able to think up names for the babies.”

“We have. Almost forgot to mention it.” Dick retrieved his son/daughter from a relieved-looking Sinclair. “Jess is filing the paperwork this week.”

“Well?” What would it be? They’d ignored my helpful suggestions (Salt and Pepper, Pepsi and Coke, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Batman and Robin, Frick and Frack, Polar and Bipolar . . .) and swore they’d come to a decision soon.

“Oh, sorry.” Dick had been smelling his baby’s head, and who could blame him? When they weren’t pooping, they smelled terrific (the same could be said of all of us in the mansion). “It’s Elizabeth and Eric.”

“That’s nice.” Ugh. At least it wasn’t Maeve and Mable. Or Tommy and Teeny. Or James and Jenny.

“Not even you’re this dim,” Marc said. “Are you?”

“Hey, I’ve been given a buttload to process in less than a week, so why don’t you— Oh.” They named their weird babies after me! (And Sinclair.) “Ohhhhh.”

“An honor,” Sinclair said, smiling. “Truly. Thank you.”

“Don’t cry,” Dick warned me. “I always cry when you do. And you cry a lot: when the Antichrist betrayed you, when Macy’s didn’t have anything ‘cute’ in your shoe size that time, when Marc killed himself, when we ran out of ice . . . I’ve bawled more in the last year than in the last ten.”

“Shut up! ’Mnot crying,” I sniffled. “Allergies.” That ought to fool him. “And—and I’m honored, too.” I leaned over and hugged Jessica. I didn’t even mind the spit-up on her shoulder.

“Who else would we name them after?” she replied, squeezing back. “Dick and I never would have met if you hadn’t become a vampire, and you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t married Sinclair.”

“Now that I think about it, yeah! Who else? Why’d it take you so long? It’s brilliant and it makes perfect sense.”

Marc shook his head over Tina’s laughter. “I swear, your ego is made of Silly Putty. You have setbacks, but you always bounce back.”

As a philosophy, it left a bit to be desired. But as a go-to attitude, it suited me pretty well. Betsy the Vampire Queen, Ruler of Hell and the Undead, with the footgear of a fashion goddess and an ego of Silly Putty.

Nah. Needed work.





CHAPTER

THIRTY-FOUR

“There’s a werewolf on the phone for you.” Marc was holding the phone out to me and literally dancing in place. “He sounds gorgeous!”

I, lounging in the TV parlor (second floor, almost directly above the Peach Parlor), was unimpressed. “Any particular werewolf, or just a random werewolf?”

“Michael Wyndham.”

Ah. The big boss. I trudged to the phone, about as thrilled to have this conversation as I was to have the Sex Talk with my mom when I was in fifth grade. (“Wait, he puts his what where? What is wrong with you? What’s wrong with every adult everywhere?”) Tell Sinclair, I mouthed at Marc, then remembered I had a telepathic link. Never mind.

“Hi, Michael.”

“Betsy.” I knew that warm, deep voice. Michael Wyndham, Pack leader. “I’ve been watching some fascinating YouTube videos lately. And press coverage.”