Undead and Undermined

Chapter FORTY-ONE



Laura carved a hole in the universe and the three of us stepped through it. I realized something that both impressed and scared me: Laura didn’t have to smack me anymore to tap into her powers. When just a few days ago, she had to practically beat me with a two by four just to drop through a doorway to end up somewhere she couldn’t plan for.

I noticed we were exactly where I wanted to go: my bedroom in the mansion.

Laura was catching on fast. Scary-fast. I was so glad she was on our side.

“Well! That was stressful and weird and probably illegal, or at least immoral. It was like a family reunion where nobody can find the booze. Also, you are really getting the hang of this teleporting-around-the-time-stream thing.”

“I’d better be.” Laura sounded unaccustomedly grim. The confrontation, of course. We’d been to hell and back (several times) and lived to tell the tale. I’d be worried if she didn’t sound grim. “We’re going to need everything, we’re going to have to learn and master everything, just to tread water. And we’re already behind.”

“I know, I know.” I didn’t, actually. Behind what? Learn everything to tread water? Sure, whatever, your doctor told you not to mix your medications, right? She picked the oddest times to be grim and determined. Didn’t she know? It was over. If this were a book, it’d be the end. If it were a movie, we’d be showing the hilarious outtakes while the audience surged toward the restrooms.

“Dammit, Betsy—”

“I’m not taking this lightly!” I added, raising my hands like I was a liquor-store clerk and she was a crack-addled petty thief. It was never a good sign when the Antichrist dropped expletives. “Just let me enjoy the moment, okay? You’ve agreed to give back the book, the devil’s pissed at us, and—”

“Hey!”

“—and Antonia—”

“Dammit, what the hell?”

I looked—that was a familiar voice. And it was coming from my closet. “And Antonia—the good one—oh my God, I can’t believe it . . . I mean, I believe it, but it’s so unreal! Even though it’s happening so, by definition, it’s very real.”

“I didn’t exactly agree to give—” Laura began.

Muffled, from the far back corner of my walk-in: “Somebody better tell me what the hell I’m doing in this closet right now!”

“And Antonia’s back,” I finished. I’d recognize those growled dulcet tones anywhere.

“Betsy, about the book . . . we’re going to need it, and I’m going to help you, and I think together we can fix things, but I didn’t agree to—”

“Whoa!” I scrambled out of the way as Garrett darted down the hallway toward my room. Only my vampire nimbleness saved me from getting squished when he flew across the threshold. He didn’t so much open my closet door as yank it off its hinges. Then Antonia was rushing out—clogs flew everywhere—and into his arms so quickly she knocked him over. They practically made their own shock wave when they came together: ka-WHAM!

Momentum brought them sliding to a stop about a foot from my ankles. I could see Antonia looked exactly as she had in life . . . still beautiful (it was disgusting how many werewolves and vamps were stupidly gorgeous). She had the build of a swimsuit model and the complexion of an Irish milkmaid who put sunscreen on before she even got out of bed. Soooo irritating. And hell must have a terrific salon, because her lustrous dark hair shone and her lean limbs were as finely toned as ever. In fact, I could see more of her limbs than I wanted as the two of them were ripping off each other’s clothes.

Wait. They issued clothing in hell? Or did you have to, I don’t know, pack a suitcase? Or a steamer trunk?

While I pondered this fascinating quandary, Antonia looked up long enough from trying to devour Garrett alive—that’s how it looked to me, anyway—to say, “Hey, bimbo. Thanks for the ticket out of hell.”

For Antonia, that was sincere, heartfelt, tearful gratitude. Heck, I was almost tearing up at the warmth of her thanks. I covered it pretty well, though. “Don’t have sex with him in here, you whore.”

Predictably, they both ignored me. “Hey. Hey! You can pay me back by fixing the closet door you broke through. And by doing that somewhere else. Oh, come on! Do not, do not have sex on my bedroom floor. At least move the extra shoes out of the . . . oh, God. Oh my God. How did you do that? I can’t even imagine how you did that to something as big as—”

Laura had seized my elbow and was dragging me away from the scene of desecration. Thank goodness, because although I didn’t want them to defile my carpet, I wanted to see them do it even less. Yet I was frozen. The whole thing was like a shuttle crash in slow motion. You know how in action movies the hero always leaps forward in slow motion to stop something terrible? And you can hear his long, drawn-out, “Noooooooooo . . . !” Yeah. It was exactly like that, except I didn’t have to pay $8.75 to see it.

“At least move my end table—” The crash of shattering glass cut me off. “You guys! Gross! I forbid it! I’m the queen of the vampires and you can’t have sex right now on my . . . oh, man. That’s not gonna come out.” I looked at Laura as she mercifully pulled my bedroom door shut. “That won’t ever come out, Laura. And there isn’t a dry cleaner on the planet who will touch it. See? See what I have to deal with?”

Laura was unmoved by their romantic reunion and my revulsion at what I had (almost) seen. “We should go tell your husband everything that’s happened.”

“Okay. Do we have a CliffsNotes version? Because telling Sinclair every single detail will take a long time. Hey, let’s start with me making your mom my bitch and finish with ‘and now Garrett and Antonia are defiling our bedroom with fluids no one should be able to voluntarily produce much less spread around.’ And can we leave out the part where I meant to ask for Antonia but asked for footgear instead?”

“Under no circumstances do we tell him every single detail.”

I nodded, relieved. “Oh, great. We’re on the same page, then.”

“Not quite. But maybe soon. Listen . . .”

I listened. But the Antichrist seemed to have trouble finding words. She just looked at me and shook her head, but I didn’t understand why. Head-shake: I’m a little overwhelmed? Head-shake: I can’t believe what Garrett did with your bedspread ? Head-shake: I’m scared what my mom will do next?

“We have a lot to do.”

“Okay. No, wait. That sucks. And you’re wrong. If this was a book, this would be the part at the end where we’re all relieved that things worked out and everybody’s happy. The end. Cue cheesy montage music, probably something sad by Stevie Nicks.”

“No.”

“Kenny Loggins?”

“What?”

“Come on, we just got back. From hell (again), if you’re not keeping score. That’s worth celebrating. That’s worth resting on our laurels for at least a week, right?”

Laura was shaking her head so much, for a moment I worried she was having a seizure. “Betsy, I don’t mean to tell you your business, except I think it’s maybe my business, too, and I’m not sure what just happened is what you think just happened. Because—”

“Are you serious? Were you not just inside the hellhole formerly known as my bedroom? What just happened—what is, ugh, still happening is exactly what I thought was happening. Sinclair isn’t going to take this well. Maybe we should go check in to the Marriott for a while . . . until the fumigators come at the least . . .”

“Betsy, please shut up! You have no idea how serious things are!”

“You’re right. And you don’t know when it’s time to relax and lighten up. It’s not your fault—it’s your upbringing. Your folks are so busy helping their fellow man they never stop and smell the fabric softener. This is the part—”

“This isn’t a book, Betsy. It’s your life. It’s all our lives.”

I ignored the buzzkilling wench. “—where we do fun things for ourselves while telling everyone about our zany adventures. Then, as in every episode of South Park, we talk about what we’ve learned. Then we rest up for a few days or weeks or (let’s hope!) months, and then something weird and terrible happens that we have to drop everything and fix. And that terrible thing sort of takes over our lives for a few days, and then we figure out how to fix the problem, and the whole celebration cycle starts all over again.”

“We have a lot to do,” she said again. “A lot to get ready for.” Laura sounded grim and resolute, which was pretty cool. I felt frazzled and freaked, which was pretty normal. I was glad Antonia was back, glad Garrett had his girlfriend back, glad I’d kicked the devil’s ass, glad Laura had sided with me at a crucial time, glad we weren’t fighting anymore.

But everything had happened so quickly! Shoot, two weeks ago I had never been to hell, to the past, to the future. Two weeks ago, Garrett and Antonia were dead and my mom was living the single life in Hastings. Two weeks ago, Christian Louboutin was getting ready for the rollout of his spring . . .

But that was too painful to think about.

“Maybe I’ll sow salt in my bedroom when those two are done. That seems to be the safest thing to do. That’s not an overreaction, right?”

“Yes, do that.” Laura sounded distracted, but she never wavered in her determination to haul me away from the scene of the (ongoing) crime. “Listen, we need to find Sinclair. And we need to talk to the Marc Thing.”

“Oh . . . shit!”

I’d forgotten. I’d completely forgotten. We had unfinished business, triumph in hell or no triumph.

The laurel-resting would have to wait, dammit.