“Nothing better to do on Cape Cod in wintertime, huh?”
Oh, dear. Elizabeth, it would be lovely to keep the Wyndham werewolves on our side.
Oh, please. He likes when I give him shit.
I know how he feels.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious. Anything you think I should know?”
“It’s family business. I’ll tell you if you really want me to. But it’s a long story and I come off like a clueless asshat.”
A muffled laugh. “I’d be grateful if you would. I suspect you’re doing what you’re best at: being too hard on yourself.”
Spotting knockoffs at twenty paces was what I was best at, but I appreciated the sentiment. Man, if I hadn’t met Sinclair first . . . Michael had the looks to go with the voice. And the voice was great. Like, podcast great. Guy sounded like verbal velvet. And he had golden eyes. Golden! Eyes!
“Okay, here it is. My sister, the Antichrist, is super pissed at me for not helping her prove to the world that the Christian God, and Hell, exists, thus (she expects) inspiring all non-Christians to instantly convert. So to get back at me she’s trying to expose vampires to the world.”
Silence, broken by, “That was a remarkably short story, actually. Er, do you require our assistance?”
Careful.
Duh. He’s not offering to help, just wondering if we want it. It’ll help him decide how much of a mess we’re in out here. What he really wants to know is how this affects his Pack: If vampires are outed, can werewolves be far behind? Will we protect them, keep quiet about their existence? Or out them to get the pressure off?
They’ve already been through this with the Undersea Folk; it’s understandable that they’re wary about another world-shaking hidden species revelation.
Yeah, no shit.
Tell him he and his are welcome to visit, as always, but we require no assistance at this time.
Oooh, tricky. “Everything’s totes fine here; we don’t care if you come or not.” Playing it cooool.
“We’re fine, Michael.” I studied my nails. Sounding unconcerned was easier for me if I looked unconcerned, even if the other guy couldn’t see me. “Don’t get me wrong, you guys are welcome anytime; I’d love to see what Jeannie’s up to.” Michael’s mate was human and, like Tallahassee in Zombieland, set the standard for “not to be fucked with.” She’d also helped me pick out my wedding gown a couple of years ago, and her children were terrifying in a wonderful way. “And your awesome, scary children, too.”
He laughed again, sounding much less tense. “Perhaps we will. But if all is well on your end—”
“We’ve got it under control.” Translation: I don’t meddle in your business, how about you keep out of mine? “But if you change your mind, come on out.”
“I will. Thanks very much for your time; I imagine you’re pretty busy.”
“Well, if it’s not one thing, it’s another.” By now Sinclair had come from his office and was standing next to me after giving Marc a gentle push away to prevent the man’s blatant eavesdropping. A pouting Marc was not a pretty sight. “Say hi to Jeannie and the kids for me.”
“I will. Pass my regards to Sinclair and the others.”
“I will. ’Bye.”
Click. Well, not really, not with these modern phones. I missed the satisfaction of hanging up. Pressing the end call button wasn’t nearly as satisfying.
“He’s coming.”
“Oh yeah.” I nodded. “Definitely.”
“What?” Marc came out of his pout long enough to add, “From what I could tell, you set his mind at ease and he’s not coming.”
“A visit’s pretty inevitable. It’s just, now he won’t leave today. They’ll watch from Massachusetts and show up, what? Within the next week or two?”
Sinclair nodded.
“Right. So that’s our deadline. That’s how long we’ve got to get this shit under control.”
“Piece of cake, right?” Marc looked from Sinclair to me and back to Sinclair. “Right? You guys are making a plan?”
Not really. But there was nothing sadder than a depressed zombie. So we lied.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
Later, Marc shooed the reporters away again. It took a few minutes because one lingered and they chatted on the lawn for a bit—what was that about?—until the sun was down far enough that it was too dark and too cold to comfortably continue.
Marc had been worried about going outside to deal with reporters, but after giving it some thought he changed his mind. As he put it, “No one outside the six of us knew I died, so there wasn’t a death certificate or a funeral. And it’s winter—lots of people feel chilly, not just mobile dead guys. And maybe they should see a friendly face—sort of, ‘Look, it’s not my call, but c’mon, how about you get out of our yard, sorry to be a hard-ass, my boss is a real meanie’ . . . like that.”