“Yes, ma’am.”
“Majesty.”
My, so polite as they practically broke their legs thundering past me for the stairs. Respect for their monarch? Or the fact that vampires were completely terrified of fire? Yeah, not much of a mystery. I was shooing the last of the vamps up the stairs, heard the crack, and jumped back before another chunk of the ceiling could clip me. “God damn it!”
Now the bottom of the stairs was blocked, though I was pretty sure everyone on this side of the basement was out by now. But I had to get my ass upstairs—the others might need me.
“Betsy!”
I looked around.
“It’s me!”
I caught on and looked down. Lara Wyndham. Probably should have picked up on that earlier. I seized her by the wrist and hauled her over to one of the annoying, small, teeny-tiny basement windows that were useless for everything: a pain in the ass to unlock and open, too small to let in light, too small to squeeze out if you were bigger than a middle schooler, absolutely useless for any purpose for which windows were invented.
“My parents and Derik—”
“They’re on the other end; they’ll be going down the tunnel.” I was pretty sure. But I didn’t need Lara running around our scarier-than-usual basement in a blind panic. “Don’t be scared; I’m going to give you a boost and you’re going to wiggle out the window and be safe, okay? Don’t worry. Won’t take a minute.” I reached up and yanked the lock so hard the metal twisted off in my hand. I could hear Lara coughing behind me—unlike me, she had to breathe. Me, I probably stank of smoke, but at least there wasn’t any in my lungs.
I wrenched the window open so hard it separated from the hinges with a low groan and a shower of rust, letting in a small amount of chilly spring air. Then I bent, picked her up, shoved her through.
“You’re safe,” I called up to her. “Wait in the yard, okay, hon? Your folks will track you down pretty soon. Stay where they can find you.”
She was crouched on the ground outside, peering down at me. “What about the babies in the house?”
And then she darted off. Because of course she wasn’t scared. Had never been scared.
I cursed under my breath, looked around the smoke-filled hellhole, hoped for inspiration, then remembered the small door off one of the side rooms that led up to the mudroom. We never used it; it was inconvenient, small, the stairs needed repair, and they were off a tiny windowless room. Also, argh, Fur and Burr!
I ducked under the main stairs and grabbed the door handle, moved through the darkness—thank you, vampire eyesight!—and found the smaller, creakier stairs. I was up them despite the creaking and trembling and into the mudroom in just a few seconds, ran to the porch door and opened it. The puppies raced past me into the yard. Excellent.
“Betsy!”
Jess. In the yard, holding baby Eric. Thank God. Thank God.
“Stay outside,” I shouted back. “Don’t come in the house!” Jess needed to breathe, too, had no equipment or training, but was so loving and loyal she’d run into a burning house if she thought I needed her. “Stay there!”
“BabyJon’s in the kitchen! The port-a-crib!”
Fuck.
“Stay there!”
I turned, felt the doorknob to the door leading to the kitchen—room temp, not too hot, so I opened it, and though there was smoke, nothing seemed to be on fire. But BabyJon wasn’t crying.
I rushed to the crib, so terrified I’d find a small, limp, dead baby that at first I mistook the crumpled blanket for a body. But there was nothing there, and I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
Sirens, finally. But where was Marc?
Sinclair! Wait. Wait. If you call for help, he’ll come back through the tunnel, wade through smoke and fire and fight his way up the stairs to find you. He was immune to sunlight, not fire.
Beloved?
I think—I think everyone from the basement got out!
I concur; we’re almost at the dock.
Okay! Come back to the mansion quick as you can!
Yes.
I heard the front door slam open, heard running, so I shoved open the kitchen door. And there was Laura at the other end of the hallway. She saw me and started screaming.
“I didn’t know!”
“Oh no,” I whispered. “Oh, Laura, what did you do?”
She screamed something else—I caught Marc and Will and Ronald, for some reason; what was that about? She took one step and then smoke just boiled through the wall and the floor disappeared and she did, too.
And then I heard BabyJon crying. I’d like to say I had a moment of indecision, that in my compassion I struggled to decide what to do, but it would be a lie. I went for the kid. What do you call a decision that was never truly a decision because there was only ever one choice?
It sounded like he was in the Peach Parlor, which meant jumping over the six-foot-by-four-foot hole that had just opened up to swallow my sister. I backed up, ran, and jumped—there was no good time to end up in our basement but never more than this moment. Unlike every movie ever, I made it with a foot to spare—it wasn’t at all suspenseful, not that I’m complaining—and tore down the hall, skidding and lunging to the left when I got to the entryway.
The Peach Parlor was enveloped in thick smoke; at first I couldn’t see a thing. If my eyes could stream, I’d have tears running down to my belly button. I’d never been gladder to be dead; a live person would be useless in this mess, would have succumbed to the smoke, probably wouldn’t have gotten out of the basement in the first place.
I could still hear BabyJon and followed the sound right over to the big windows overlooking the front yard. The glass had been shattered, I realized, but not by the fire. Someone had broken them out, because there were scuff marks—no, I had it wrong; someone had kicked the glass out. Someone short.
I looked out and grinned at a glorious sight: Lara Wyndham standing in the yard, dirty and sooty and probably stinking of smoke, her jeans ripped and her pretty pastel sweater so dirty it’d never be clean, holding my babyson. I’d heard crying, all right: BabyJon was howling at being roughly yanked from a port-a-crib by a feral middle schooler who’d hauled him outside and was holding a onesie-clad toddler in the chilly spring air. I’d have been yelling, too. Maybe even rage pooping.*
I dove out the window like they do in the movies, though instead of rolling into an efficient somersault and popping up ready for battle, I just sort of flopped out onto the grass. “Are you okay?” I cried, staggering to my feet. “God, you’re a mess; your mom’s gonna kill me.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry—the baby’s okay; he’s cold, I think. Here.” Lara handed him off and BabyJon started to calm down, recognizing me even in my wild-eyed state. Lately, wild-eyed was kind of my norm, so maybe he even took comfort from my stress. Glad it was good for something.
“I was worried about you, too, Lara. Well, a little. Actually, in retrospect, worrying about you is just a waste of time.”
I realized she’d given him to me so she could take off her sweater, which she then wrapped around BabyJon, who was starting to calm down. She didn’t even shiver, though she was down to jeans, tennis shoes, and a thin T-shirt, which (weird coincidence) matched Fred’s New England Aquarium sweatshirt. I must have looked puzzled, because Lara said, “Dr. Bimm gave it to me!”
“Of course she did.” Came to town to meet werewolves and vampires, brought gifts. But only for the werewolves, apparently? Must be a mermaid thing. “Lara, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Uh-huh. And Mom and Dad and Derik are coming. I can smell them. They’re okay, too.”
I knelt and enveloped both of them in my arms. “Thank you so much. Lara, I’m even more scared of you than I was yesterday and also I love you now. Thank you for saving my baby.”
She hugged back with panicky tight
ness and I realized that for all her innate courage, she’d been—maybe not frightened, but tense, certainly. Worried. Fretful?
“I can’t wait to tell your folks how brave and clever you were, but right now I have to go back inside and get my—”
“Betsy!”
Marc. Screaming.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
I picked up Lara and BabyJon and ran with them through the front yard, plunked them down the minute I felt the cement driveway under my feet. “Stay here. Wait.” Then I hurried to the sidewalk in front of the mansion, where Marc was kneeling over a body, reporters trying to talk to him while the cameras rolled. And Laura was still in the basement. Sirens were getting closer, but no one was on the scene yet. How to explain any of this to the authorities?
Explaining is the last thing you should be worried about.
“Help me,” Marc panted, and I could see he was performing CPR on—oh God—Will Mason. Will’s gaze was fixed and unblinking. I felt him. Cool and getting cooler. No pulse.
“Marc.”
“Help me, I said! Breathe for him! I think I cracked a rib but we can worry about that later.”
“Marc. Look at him.” I wasn’t a doctor, but I knew dead when I saw it. I’d heard the gunshots more than fifteen minutes ago. There was no bringing him back. Marc knew this. He just couldn’t—well. You know. “You have to stop; there will be others who need you.”
“Can’t. He died trying to help us.” Marc was weeping as he pressed Will’s unresponsive chest, forced that dead heart to beat. “It’s not gonna be for nothing. That bitch. That jealous fucking bitch.”
That jealous fucking bitch was in my basement and hopefully still alive. I decided not to mention this to Marc. “Sinclair and the others are coming. They had to get through the tunnel and then run back here. Lara’s got BabyJon and they’re just over there on the driveway. And the fire trucks and ambulances will be here any minute. You might want to . . . um . . .” Scuttle off like a zombie. Hide in the shadows like a creature of the night. “Help with a head count?” Far, far away from reporters?
“I’m not leaving him,” Marc said, and he felt Will’s cooling throat for a pulse. Then he leaned forward and eased the man’s eyes closed with a sweep of his palm. He was still crying. I doubted he knew and, if he did know, doubted he cared.
“Okay. Forgive me for leaving you.”
I got up and ran back to the mansion, which was now belching black smoke into the night air. It wasn’t completely on fire—if the trucks got here in the next minute or so we might not lose everything—but I couldn’t worry about that now.
What about my shoe—
And I couldn’t worry about those, either.
I was through the front door in a blink, peering into the hole in the hallway in another. I couldn’t see anything, had to jump and hope for the best.
I nearly fell on the Antichrist, who had landed badly, impaling herself on twisted metal and chunks of wood. In an exquisite, awful irony, she was dying from what would have killed a vampire. There was a two-by-four sticking out of her stomach, and that was just one of many.
I dropped to my knees, felt the skin on my knees tear. Didn’t care. I grabbed up her hand, thought, Easy, don’t break the bones, don’t squeeze too hard. “Laura, you gorgeous idiot, look at this meth.” Fuck, fuck! Not now, I raged at my treacherous disobedient fangs. I wiped my face, furious. Not now with this, just stop it! The last thing my sister sees and hears will not be a lisping bloodthirsty idiot! And
(oh thank God finally a little luck)
just like that, they slid back out of sight. Even my fangs didn’t want to mess with me tonight, it seemed.
“Mess!” I nearly shouted down at her. “Look at this mess.”
She managed to grin up at me. “I might.” Stopped. Breathed. “Not’ve. Thought this through.”
Ya think? I managed—barely—to keep that behind my teeth. She was going. Piling it on at this point would be not only gross, but pointless.
But . . . she didn’t have to be going. She could be fine. I could see to it. Her wounds were horrific and terrified me but I could whisk her down to Hell and cure her, probably. I could—there were lots of things I could do. Grab Marc and Laura and teleport them straight to the ER of Marc’s choice, using Hell as the transfer station. Promise Marc anything in the world if he would just help my sister. I could—
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t help me. Don’t save me. I want . . . to go.”
“I—”
“Promise.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Don’t turn me,” she whispered, enormous blue eyes filling with tears. Pain? Regret? Or just the smoke making her eyes water? It was awful that I didn’t know. She was my sister, and I truly didn’t know what she was thinking, even now. “Not into a vampire, or a zombie. Please don’t.”
“I don’t know how to make zombies,” I said tearfully. “I never have. Ancient Me turned Marc.”*
“You do know. You just never tried because you don’t want to know. That’s you, Betsy, you all over: you hide from things.”
“That’s not—”
She coughed, a harsh bark that cut me off. After a few seconds, she finished. “And don’t let your other friends make me a werewolf.”
“That’s not how it—” Was I really going to argue with her? She was dying. She’d lost. She could have the last word. She could take the credit for leaving this one last time. “I won’t, I promise. I’ll let you bleed out like a good sister would.”
I got the barest curl of a smirk for that.
“You’re not lisping. You’ve got blood all over—mostly other people’s—”
“It’s almost never my blood,” I said, miserable. “These days, anyway. Other people—” Have to pay the price.
“Still. You’re not lisping.”
“I think I got a handle on that, finally.” It was like a switch had flipped in my head. Every time my fangs wanted to peek out, I just willed them back. And all it took was being outed to the world, bitched at by werewolves, sneered at by a mermaid, attacked by my sister, intimidated by a child, and then watching my sister die. Piece of cake.
“I handled this. Badly.”
Understatement! I groped for something else to say. Something nice. Something not stupid. “No harm done,” is what came out of my eternally moronic mouth.
“How can you lie . . . to someone on their deathbed?” She blinked, glanced around at the mess. “Deathpile. Ugh, you’re right. The basement is awful.”
“Because I can’t think about what to say to make you feel better about . . . about—” Dying in blood and pain. Knowing you failed. Getting innocents killed. Letting your petty emotions rule over your kindness—because she was kind; Laura had the capacity for great goodness. She just let herself get distracted by her darker emotions. We all do it. But when ordinary people indulged, there wasn’t usually millions in property damage and a death count.
“You were right about Ronald.” I imagined I looked like the center of a rapidly narrowing tunnel to her, with my dirty hair and face and the ruin of my outfit, and somewhere I’d lost a shoe. The last thing she’d see in life would be me looking my worst, wearing only one Rupert Sanderson Isolde Point-Toe flat. That shouldn’t bother me almost as much as her treachery and impending death, but it did, because I’m awful. “You tried to warn me. I. Wouldn’t listen.”
“I won’t make a habit of it,” I babbled. “Being right. I swear! You know what they say about stopped clocks.”
She sighed sarcastically, which I hadn’t known was possible. “You always know. What to say. To make me feel better.”
I started to shake my head. Then it hit me. “That’s—yeah. You’re right. I do know what to say.” This once, I knew exactly what to say. I squeezed her hand but she didn’t squeeze back. Su
lking, or dying. Or both. Yeah. Both.
I paused for a second, made myself concentrate. Think! Remember! Do this one thing for her, since you didn’t do much else. You made her feel like this—this!—was a viable option. She’s responsible, but you fed the flames.
A shadow above me—I don’t even know how I saw it, we were in so much darkness—and then the shadow moved and Sinclair landed like a cat in the rubble beside me. “Beloved, I can help you move—” he began, bending toward Laura with obvious intent.
“No! Don’t touch her!” I grabbed his reaching hands and shoved. He stumbled but didn’t overbalance. “She doesn’t—don’t. Look. See? She’s afraid of you. Don’t touch her.”
“I will not,” he said quietly, holding his hands up, palms out. He crouched beside me. He wouldn’t mourn her, I knew, but he’d regret the waste and loss of life. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, Laura.”
She was trying to move, was thrashing weakly on the things sticking through her body to keep away from him and it was awful, it was pathetic and horrifying and sad and gross all at once. “Don’t move, Laura, don’t! And listen. Look at my face. Look. Listen to me. I banish you from—from this earthly plane. Your body will remain, but you—you shall not. You are forever banished.” I gulped. “From here.”
She closed her eyes. Breathed. Listened.
“And—and I forbid you the solace and succor of my lands, those mine by—by right of conquest. You shall find no—no—” Fuck! What was the rest of it? I could picture the Book of Shadows on my nightstand, but I couldn’t remember the next line of the spell.
Sinclair’s prompt popped into my mind. You shall find no shelter there . . .
“You shall find no shelter there, neither now nor aeons from now,” I gabbled, desperate to get it all out while she could hear me. While she was still with me. “I deny you forever.”