Undead and Undermined

Chapter THIRTY-FIVE



I gritted my teeth and texted Sinclair I was on the way back. Hate, hate, hate texting. In addition to being a ticket to a body bag if you did it while driving, it was rude (“If you don’t put that down, I’m going to turn your phone into a suppository.”), and disruptive (“Darling, will you do me the honor of becoming my—hold up, I’m getting a text from my dog groomer . . . No! Look, look at the picture he sent my phone! Mitzy is a poodle, not a dachshund . . . Do you know how long it’ll take her fur to grow back? Do you? Huh?”). But it was beyond mean to let him worry. So I did the dirty, dirty deed, then started the car and pulled out of the driveway.

I never drive and text and, as far as I’d been able to tell, I’m the only person in the state who does this.

Twice in three months I had to stand on my brakes (Sinclair’s brakes) and watch, stunned, as the driver cruised straight through a red light, their gaze glued to the teeny screen in their hand. Horns as Vengeance 101 tended to get their attention. I was tough to ignore during the best of circumstances (it’s wrong that I’m proud of that), never mind when I was smashing my fists on the horn and leaning out the window to shriek, “Get your head out of your ass or I will find you!”

Whew. Just thinking about texting prevalence made me nuts all over again. If I were capable of it, I’d be having heart palpitations.

Quietly, from the backseat: “Hi?”

I screamed and heard the steering wheel actually groan as my grip tightened.

“Hi? Betsy?”

Then I made things worse by twisting around to see who was in my backseat. A serial killer, of course; the way my week was going there was no other explanation.

This is it. I’m about to be murdered and killed, which after meeting Clive I almost welcome. The regrets are eating me alive! I never texted Sinclair that I loved him; I only texted him I was on the way home. My texts are brutal; they’re an emotional Arctic Ocean. Lord, please eventually let him find love again with a woman who isn’t as hot as me.

The only question left was, did the killer behind me have an axe, or was one of his hands a hook? (You gotta love the classics.)

All this stuff happened in my head in a quarter of a second, and as a result while I was taking roll call for the backseat, I drove into a lamp post. The whole car shuddered and jerked to a stop with the impact. It rained glass for half a moment; things seemed very bright and fast, then dark and sluggish. The pool of light created by the street lamp vanished and it rained more glass. My seat belt tried its best to strangle me, and whoever was in my backseat was trying to induce my death by freak-out.

“Are you going to get Antonia now?” Garrett asked hopefully. “There’s not much time left before sunrise.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?” I knew he was an uncomplicated and single-minded creature, but sheesh. “You prick. Why didn’t you say something?” I unbuckled my seat belt, gave my car door a shove, then stood shakily in the street.

The hood was accordianed back almost to the windshield, and I could smell so much gas, oil, and hot metal it was almost unbearable. I didn’t think the neighbors were in danger; I doubt any of them could smell it as strongly as I could. Didn’t seem to be bothering Garrett, though, which I found annoying.

I coughed and swayed and said it again. “You prick. Lurking in my backseat? Are you out of your—scratch that . . . gah, Sinclair will not be pleased, and neither will our insurance company, Garrett, c’mon, jeez, I can’t—you shouldn’t—what the hell?” Hmm. I was sounding a little shrill. And feeling a little bitey.

“I told you I was in the back.” He was calm and unruffled, if shy. Meanwhile, I felt like I might fly into a zillion pieces, all of them in a bad mood. “I told you the second you got in. You couldn’t hear me. So I said it louder. But you couldn’t hear me again.”

I yanked on the car handle. I was going to haul him out by the scruff his neck and beat him to death with the streetlight. Or the passenger door.

“It’s true,” Laura said. “He was trying to tell you. I said hi, too, but you had that look . . . the my-brain-is-on-pause look. Did you know you sort of go away when people are trying to tell you things?”

“And then you snap back, and sometimes you’ve been able to follow the conversation and sometimes we have to help you,” Garrett added.

I could only assume I had a skull fracture. What— where—what was Laura doing here? “Good God!” Garrett climbed out; Laura slid out behind him. I bent and peeked. “How many people are back there?”

“Just us.” Garrett was beginning to recover from my exclamation. Sinclair had once told me hearing God or Jesus or what have you felt like a whiplash. Across his balls. “We were waiting for you.”

“Swell.” I ran my fingers through my hair and closed my eyes, fighting the urge to yank. Or slap. “Where to begin? I’m so pissed at both of you right now I’m gonna stroke out. Must punish . . . and yell . . . too many emotions . . . arrgh, the pain!”

“Are you all right?”

“Nooooooooooooooooooo.”

Laura coughed, a delicate em-erm, and said, “We were in the same car accident you were, and we seem to be doing all right.”

That was a matter of opinion.

“Yes, but you caused the f*cking thing! You knew you were in the backseat, but I didn’t know you were in the backseat so I was startled to hear him in the backseat and then see him and then see you, you knew that would all happen but I didn’t.” I stared at the mess on the sidewalk. “Also, nitwits, my mom’s a taxpayer in this town. She and everyone else are gonna get stuck paying to fix the light.”

“Since when do you even know what taxes are?”

“Hey, great news, Laura, you just won! Here I’ve been wondering which of you to kill first. I’m now officially madder at you than him and will punish accordingly. To begin with: you suck. And your mom? The Lady of Lies? She lied! Again.” You’d think I could predict this behavior by now.

People were opening their front doors to get a good look, and no wonder; the sound of the crash had ripped through the peaceful, small-town evening. I was willing to bet someone had called the cops. Hmmm, where did Sinclair keep his car registration? Because I had the feeling I was going to have to flash some paperwork. At least no one was hurt. Especially me.

“Yes, well.” Laura couldn’t look at me. Garrett had no trouble, but he wasn’t nervous like she was. Just hopeful, like a basset hound watching someone open a box of jerky. “I, uh, I thought I might owe you an apology, you know, after what happened, but when I went to the mansion, Garrett met me in the driveway and we left for your mom’s . . . to save time I took us to Hell first, then here. I never even made it inside. And I didn’t want to see—I mean, you were the one I wanted to talk to, not the others. But we didn’t want to bother your mom, so we just waited for you.”

(Note to self: start locking the damn car.) I should have been happy. An apology? Great! We would now live happily ever after as mandated by every happy ending in the world. No point looking back; we’d just surge forward, etc., etc., hallelujah, amen.

But the needle on my Creep-O-Meter was bouncing. Not just because Garrett liked skulking in the front yard, and not because he’d had the courage to ask Laura to ride along (the Garrett in my timeline would have barely spoken to her, never mind asked for anything). No, the worst part was how Laura was willing to go straight to my mom’s with a feral vampire, one she knew was damaged, one she knew was unpredictable and dangerous, one who, after being brutalized and killed didn’t speak a word for something like fifty years. And then . . . then! Lurk patiently in the backseat. With an apology, no less. Then be surprised when I freak out.

“Laura . . .”

“I thought I was helping you. I really did. When I wouldn’t give it back. You believe me, right, Betsy?” Her eyes were wide and the left one brimmed with a single perfect tear; she could have pled without making a sound. “Right?”

I chewed my lower lip and thought it over. Which in itself was a change; even a year ago I would have fallen all over myself to accept her apology, would have been glad of anything to keep, or return to, the peace.

Again: yes, I was very glad she’d come back repentant. But this was one of her scarier qualities. She could go from sugar to boiling lava in eight seconds. And just as abruptly, her rage would leave her and she wouldn’t hesitate to make amends. It was bewildering, and unpredictable.

And I had no choice. I had to forgive her, had to hug her and pretend some of the fight was my fault. Because I could not afford to go to war with the Antichrist.

Not yet. And it was awful that I was even contemplating when that step might be inevitable. If I had changed a bit in the last three years, so had my little sister. When we met, she’d never skipped church . . . now we were fortunate if she went twice a month. She’d never been in a fight, hardly ever raised her voice. But she’d killed vampires and at least one human serial killer.

To say nothing of the time she tried to kill me.

My point: I couldn’t afford a grudge, which sucked because I was pretty good at holding them. So though it was tempting to cling to my righteous wrath, I nodded and gave her a quick A-frame hug (shoulders together, asses far apart) and told her it was all right, it was no big thing, the important thing was that she’d come to her senses.

Guess which two of those were the lies?

She hugged back so hard I could practically hear myself squish. Really hard, and instead of resting her hands on my back she had bunches of my shirt in both fists. She wasn’t hugging so much as . . . clinging. Like she was drowning or something. Like I could save her.

“Okay, I’m glad you quit being such a mega—uh, I’m glad we got that straightened out. Listen, we’ve got to get back to the mansion and deal with the Marc Thing, but the car is—”

“Everybody okay?” someone called from across the street. I turned and gave them my Miss Burnsville wave.

“Just fine!” I lied cheerfully. “Thanks anyway.” No vampires or Antichrists over here, no, sir. Just your standard car vs. streetlight.

“I thought we could use hell, since your car is wrecked.”

“Eh? Oh.” Our speedy yet invisible getaway from this suburban neighborhood; that was the topic to tackle. “Mmmm, gosh, tempting but . . . how about a cab instead? Or Sinclair can come pick us up and mourn his Jetta. I think using hell as our vehicle just makes things unnecessarily complicated.” For some reason I was reminded of one of the best cartoons in the history of animation, Up (Kevin the bird was my fave, and Kevin’s babies!).

At one point, the kid, Russell, says he’ll take the bus from Paradise Falls back to his house: “Whoa, that’s gonna be like a billion transfers to get back to my house.” A hell-bound bus ride . . . how many transfers would it take to get back from hell?

“We’re getting Antonia now.”

I noticed that wasn’t a question. Garrett wasn’t contributing much to this meeting, except to startle me half to death and nag me to take him to hell. Beyond that, he clearly didn’t give a shit.

“You said,” he reminded me, like we were on the playground.

“Well, yeah, the me from the original timeline promised, but right now? Right this second right now?”

I didn’t think Garrett was going to answer, but he did, and was I concussed or did he sound pissed? “If it was the king, would we stand and discuss?”

“But it’s not the king.” As soon as it was out, I could have jammed both hands over my mouth. Wow. Elitist much? The sneaky undead craft-mad knitter had a point. But then, so did I. Sinclair was the king; weren’t things different for him by definition? For me?

I had no idea if I was right, and less interest in finding out. When I heard “not the king” come out of my mouth, the part of me that had no interest in becoming Ancient Betsy decided the discussion was going to go Garrett’s way.

“I don’t know if we can get her or not,” Laura-I’m-not-a-killjoy-I-swear said. “There’s so much about Mother’s home I don’t know. But I can at least get us there. Can help you talk to her and find Antonia.”

“That’s nice of you.” This, in as neutral a voice as I could manage. Had she ever called Satan Mom or Mother before? Usually it was her or my mother or that evil creature. What was next? Mother’s Day brunches? “I’m glad for the help and I’m sure Garrett is, too.”

“You promised,” he nagged yet again. He’d make Antonia a wonderful housewife. He could knit sweaters and hector Antonia about mowing the lawn. A regular 1950s family, with fangs. On both sides, come to think of it.

“Well, I really feel as though I have to . . . and I want to, also,” she assured Garrett.

Hmmm. (I was hmmmming a lot these days.) In other words, I’m sorry and please take advantage of my regret to help your lackey. This way you don’t have to talk me into anything, won’t that be nice?

Her expression told a similar story: I’m sorry, please let me do this. I’m sorry, sorry, so sorry.

And she was. I believed that. She was sorry, sorry, so sorry. Until next time.

I hated fence-sitting, especially when I was the one doing it. Laura’s offer was a time-saver at the very least. And since when did I turn my back on a shortcut?