Undead and Undermined

Chapter EIGHTEEN



“That’s right.” I gripped the gold cross around my neck and wiggled it back and forth at her. I’d had to sling it all the way around so it was on my back when Sinclair and I were, um, busy earlier. Nothing kills the mood faster than a third-degree burn between the nipples. His, not mine.

Laura’s color-of-a-spring-sky eyes were slits. “I am not jealous.”

“Wait, that’s the word you’re refuting?” Jessica asked. “Out of that whole thing she just said?”

“I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to keep you safe. And because you’re you, you’re blocking me all over the place.”

My husband and friends had the look of people watching the most terrifying yet coolest tennis match in the history of human events. I didn’t remember moving, but I was nose-to-nose with my little sister, shaking my (unmanicured . . . the older I got, the harder it was to find time to do vital stuff like nail maintenance) finger under her chin, and she wasn’t backing down an inch.

“And in case you lost track of time in hell or at Goodwill, I’ve only been back about three hours! It’s not like I went on a shopping spree without warning anybody.” This time. “But never mind me, Miss Sneaky Pants. Let’s get back to you, and how you’re sneaky. You ducked out to hide the book, and I can’t help notice you haven’t.” I lightly pushed her with tented fingers. “Given.” Push. “It back.”

“I already told you.” She settled her stance so my fingers weren’t rocking her back and forth. “You don’t need it.”

“Not. Your. Ennnff! Decision.” Damn. She could really brace herself when she wanted.

“Ladies,” Sinclair tried.

“To think I could be stitching up drunks and missing this!” Marc gurgled.

“Get her!” the Marc Thing yelled. I had no idea who he was rooting for.

“It’s mine.” I couldn’t believe I was pissed because someone had grabbed the book I loathed and was keeping it from me so I couldn’t read it to find out terrible things I could do nothing about.

Weirder: I couldn’t believe I was pissed because I truly felt my property had been stolen! How could my life and death have gotten so f*cked up in three years?

Come on, Betsy. Time to wake up. You’re having a terrible dream because you missed the sweater sale at Saks, but things will be better once you wake up. Wake up! “So cough it up.”

“Why do you even care? You hate it. Everybody knows you hate it . . . Lord knows you complain about it enough.”

“What the Lord knows and keeps to Himself is none of your business. You know I hate it? So you just come in and snatch it? I hate famine and poverty, too, so what’s your plan for those?”

“The important thing,” Tina began, “is that it is no longer missing. And I am sure Laura will—”

“Back off,” I snapped in unison with Laura’s, “Stay out of this, you lesbian slut.”

“Hey! Tina is a bisexual slut.”

“Thank you, my queen,” Tina murmured as N/Dick slowly shook his head and stared at the floor. I knew that look. He was afraid he was going to laugh, even as he knew baaaad shit could happen at any second.

“How do you not see how twisted and stupid this is, Laura? You know, you know the whole reason I went to hell was because your evil, evil, evil, evil mom promised me that if I did, I could read the f*cking thing and not get a nine-day migraine or turn evil. So why take it now that I can finally read it?”

“I thought you went to hell so you could help me learn about my powers,” Laura said sadly.

Okay. Whoa. That stopped me right there. I instantly felt like an unworthy shit. She just sounded so . . . dejected. I reminded myself she was just a kid—was she even drinking age yet? A lonely kid with the devil for a mom and powers she couldn’t control—and a destiny she didn’t want.

“Well, yeah. That, too. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed our zany adventures.” Huge lie. “And when your mom explained the best way for you to get in touch with your abilities was to smack me around? Hilarious!” Huger lie. “But you’re forgetting something, Laura. Before we went anywhere, you called me, remember? You woke up naked in the spoon and called me for help.”

“Waaaaait!” the Marc Thing wailed. “What are you talking about? What spooooon?”

“Then I ended up talking to your mom and making the deal. That’s how all this started, right?” I softened my tone. “Well, we’re back now, and we’ve got more work to do—you know, saving the world, and saving Marc—”

Marc smiled, pleased. “Thank you.”

From the kitchen: “It won’t work! You won’t save him! We’re doooooomed. In every timeline, I think. So kill us both, Spock!” Psycho vamps channeling Star Trek . . . so this is what they meant by hell in a hand basket.

“That duct tape is working so great,” Jessica whispered to Dickie/Nickie. “Why didn’t we gag him with a roll of it?”

He shrugged, not taking his gaze off me. “Hindsight.” It wasn’t the first time I noticed Nick was standing almost entirely in front of Jessica. Protecting her, like. It looked so natural—practiced?—and Jess didn’t even notice. In this timeline they were in love, he liked me and tolerated the shenanigans from House o’ Vamps, but was also mindful of the danger. I liked him a lot for it.

“Betsy? What?”

I blinked and looked at Laura. Sinclair leaned in and muttered, “You were explaining that you needed each other and helped each other, but now have a new agenda.”

“Yea, that. An agenda like you and me not getting evil, or more evil, so please give me back my Book of the Dead now so we can get on with whatever it is.”

Wait. Had I really just phrased it like that?

“It’s not your Book of the Dead,” Laura pointed out.

“It follows me around like a dumb, ugly, smelly dog,” I said, irritated. “Whose else would it be?”

“You don’t need it and you shouldn’t use it. I’ll take it to hell and let you know what you’re supposed to know.”

“What, because you’re the Antichrist you won’t go crazy if you read it? Or is your devil mom going to translate for you?”

“Either way, Laura, as my queen rightly pointed out, that is not your decision,” Sinclair said. You could practically hear the icicles in his voice. “She requires her property. I require your obedience to my queen.”

“Well, why not?”

“Why not, what?” I nearly screamed. How long had we been having this argument? Eight months? Gah.

“Why isn’t it my decision? I’m more powerful than you are, and I can call on my mom if we need help. I should hang on to the book. Right?”

“Right? Right? No, that’s not right. It stayed with Sinclair until I became a vampire, then it stayed with me. It never had anything to do with you, but now you’ve decided you should have it? And you’re all mystified because I’m pissed?”

“You’re always pissed,” my little sister mumbled, and I could have happily slapped her perfect complexion. “Should have done it a long time ago anyway.”

I swayed in my shoes. Words. They really failed me. You sneaky cow! Did you lose a bet? Nope, nope. How long have been a slobbering sociopath? Nuh-uh, not quite right.

“Will you cut the shit already?” That was better, but still not great. “What’s wrong with you, you loon?”

“It’s just that some things, you don’t need to know and you shouldn’t know. Just because you can check on the future doesn’t mean you should. You need to stay as far away as you can from that book.”

“Oh, barf. You’re majoring in Sneaky, which is just so lame! You pretend to rush over to help me, on the way to Goodwill no less . . .” For some reason I couldn’t let that one go. It really bugged me. “Because that’s your thing, you do these showy goody-goody things like teaching Sunday school and giving clothes to the poor while at the same time you’re smacking me to time travel, admiring your weird wings in hell, not telling your mother to butt out of your life, sneaking around my house, stealing books bound in skin, not saying anything, not giving it back, and pretending it’s because I’m the bad guy? You know what, Laura?”

“Don’t say it,” Laura cautioned.

“Majesty—”

“My queen—” Sinclair looked distinctly constipated. I could tell he wanted to clap his hand over my mouth, but didn’t quite dare. “Please—”

“You are—”

“You better not,” the Antichrist warned.

“You are your mother’s daughter!”

From down the hall: “Oh no she dih-unt!”

The room shot to the side. This was amazing and scary—then I realized Laura had clocked me on the chin with her tiny fist of evil. Before Sinclair or Tina or anyone could do anything, I saw a sight that had become waaaay too familiar in the last few days/centuries: a portal into hell had opened right there in our library, courtesy of the Antichrist striking her flesh-and-blood in anger.

It led to hell; the doorway was made of Hellfire, and yes, I’m aware of how high that description hits on the Lame-O-Meter. But it was the best I could do—the doorway-sized entrance glowed with a sort of dark fire. Tina and Sinclair had both ducked behind their raised forearms and I remembered that Hellfire was lethal to vampires.

Except me. Along with the crown and the studly husband, I got eternal immunity from holy water, crosses, Hellfire, and laugh lines. And blisters and corns.

“I’m leaving,” my sister told me, “before we say things we regret.”

“How’s that even possible?” I wondered. “You’d really have to put some time in to figure out how you could say things that are more regretful.” Then, “No you don’t!”

I reached out and blindly grabbed. Laura yelped as I jerked her head back—I had a double fistful of Suave-scented golden tresses. She responded by kicking out, hard.

Snarling and scratching and pulling, we fell into hell.