Undead and Undermined

Chapter TWENTY-NINE



“Okay, come on. I gotta hit the closet.” I slowed my usual galloping pace while Jessica gasped and labored up the stairs. Being pregnant in a mansion this size must be a real bitch. All our staircases looked like something out of Gone With the Wind. “My clothes closet, not the water closet, which I have clarified because in this timeline you’ve become obsessed with going to the bathroom.”

“Shut. The f*ck. Up,” she gasped.

“Hey, I can do a Rhett. Thinking about these stairs reminded me. I can scoop you up and sweep you up the stairs, except without a romantic lesbian vibe.”

“Eat shit. And. Die.”

“It’ll be quicker. Probably. Even with my superior vampire strength, I’m not sure I could heft your bulk up these stairs.”

“Touch me. And. Die.”

Finally, she made it, and I followed her down the hall to my room. “At least we’ve gotten that out of the way.”

“What out of the way?”

“You having the nerve to fall in love and get pregnant in an alternate timeline. I’m glad I’ve forgiven you; now I can concentrate on saving the world and, also, Marc.”

“Jesus God,” my friend muttered. I gently shoved her into a sitting position on my bed and darted into my closet. I couldn’t save the future and also Marc and maybe beat up the Antichrist unless I had the right footgear. Sure, it sounded lame, but if I felt sexy and confident I could get more done. And these shoes made me feel sexy and confident. They were my version of a 1980s power tie, except not stupid. Case closed.

Except.

Um.

Sexy . . . and . . . confident . . . except . . . what?

“Wh-where . . . ?”

Jessica had rolled off my bed, stretched up on her toes, stepped closer and peeked over my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s . . . there are shoes that should be in here that are not in here. And there are shoes in here that should not, should not, should not, should not be in here!” I actually had to fight down the urge to throw up in my mouth.

There were over a dozen shoes missing, and my closet was a third full with . . . ugh . . . I could hardly . . . it was impossible and yet the grisly evidence was all over my closet. “What are all these velvet clogs doing in there?”

“Well. They’re . . . you know.” Jessica looked puzzled and alarmed. She covered her belly with both hands this time. Again, I was certain she had no knowledge of it. “They’ve been in for the last year. You—the you who was here a couple of days ago—you had just bought that navy blue pair, over there.”

“But—” In this timeline I kept my good taste up my ass? Both Antonias were still dead but I now collected clogs? “But I hate clogs!”

“Since when?”

“Since always! And where are all the Christian Louboutins? I need my honeymoon Louboutins, my red Pavleta flats, I need them, where are they, I need them!”

“Your what?” Jessica, who had never feared me, ever, was backed all the way into the far corner.

“Pavletas, my Pavleta Louboutins, the Christian Louboutins, there should be twelve pairs of goddamned Christian Louboutins in here and they’re gone and I really need the ones I got on my honeymoon; where are my Christian Louboutins!”

“Who,” Jessica asked, frowning so hard her forehead laddered into dark wrinkles, “is Christian Louboutin?”

My screams brought Marc and Sinclair on the run.