Chapter 11-13
Chapter 11
She was Sinclair's majordomo, which was a fancy word to describe the awesomeness that was Tina, super secretary and administrative assistant to the damned. But she was even more than that.
She knew where the bodies were buried-not an idle phrase in this house. She knew all the account numbers and passwords. She knew birthdays and death days. She knew favorite foods and allergies. She was practically a genius with firearms-a pretty good trick for someone who'd been born during the Civil War. Or turned into a vampire during same.
She had made my husband-turned him. And stuck with him ever since, and when she met me, instantly threw her loyalty right at me.
She was-you know. She was Tina. Tina, undead citizen of the undead with a penchant for booze made from potatoes and flavored with cured meats.
Really, about all I knew about her was that she turned Sinclair into a vampire the night of his family's triple funeral, and I guess they'd never looked back.
Tina and my husband hadn't hooked up, which I found both a relief and weird-they would have made a gorgeous power couple. I was sort of amazed he'd resisted her, frankly. She was supremely gorgeous, and even better, massively smart. Like, Dog Whisperer smart.
No, the two of them had just calmly gone about the business of amassing money and property and . . . this is going to sound pretty damn conceited, even for me, but they basically spent scores of decades waiting for yours truly to show up.
Enter moi, recently deceased and pissed off (the latter nothing new; the former extremely new). The night I met Tina she saved my ass. I've managed to return the favor once or twice.
The point? I guess the point was, I loved and admired and lived with and depended on people I really knew very little about. Not that they were taciturn-I just usually couldn't be bothered. Who cared if Sinclair had been raised Presbyterian or Lutheran? Who cared if his grandmother ever made him eat lutefisk at Christmas time? Who cared if Tina had ever been married, ever been a mom?
Well. They did, probably.
And I should have.
Chapter 12
Majesty, how long are you going to lurk by the door?"
Of course. She knew I was there, had known I was there probably before I knew I was headed toward the kitchen. I could be quiet when I wanted, but Tina was more ghost than vampire, and nothing got by her.
"Please don't pick that one," I begged, and she chuckled.
"No, I'm not quite in the mood for that . . I listened hard; did she have a southern accent? No. I was sure she never had-at least, not in the three years I'd known her. It's possible it had worn off after sixty-some years of living in Minnesota.
Wait. Was she even southern? Or was I just assuming because she referenced any time line with the Civil War?
I could have just asked her, but I was too embarrassed.
"I think . . A low clink as she moved bottles around. "Hmm. " She withdrew . . . root beer. Root beer-flavored potato juice.
"Now you're just torturing me. "
"Never, Majesty. I live and die at your very command. " Clunk! Back went the root beer bottle. And here came . . . gah, I was afraid to look . . .
Mint.
I exhaled with relief, a habit from being alive I hadn't dropped yet. Tina chuckled again-she had a great, low laugh, sort of like ripping velvet. "I think, yes," she said, setting the frosty bottle on the counter. "Join me, my queen?"
"Not on a bet" She drank it neat. "Isn't it cheaper to just guzzle rubbing alcohol?"
"Yes indeed, but much less satisfying. "
"Good hunting?" As soon as I asked, I grimaced. Whoever Tina'd snacked on, they were human beings. Not the weekly deli platter from Rainbow Foods.
Except sometimes, that was almost the most they could hope to be. There were such shits running around, all the time.
I still remember a meal from over a year ago . . . I'd happened on a pedophile who was just lowering the pants of her victim. I'd meant to knock her out and save the middle-school boy. Instead, I'd nearly put her through the wall. The brick wall. The good news was, when she came to she was so rattled she started compulsively confessing to . . . everything. The bad news was, after it happened? I hardly ever thought about the useless cow.
It wasn't that I felt bad. I felt bad because I didn't feel bad. Not too migraine-inducing.
". . . but after, he promised to turn himself in and return all the bootlegged copies of Ironman Three and Spiderman Eight. "
"And the populace sleeps in peace. Bootleg. So, uh, that word. I bet it takes you back . . . to moonlit nights in the deep South when you ran moonshine for your many cousins . . . "
"Majesty?"
"Unless, of course, it doesn't. Take you back I mean. So does it?"
Tina's brow was knitted, so much so that for a scary moment she appeared to sport a unibrow. "I beg pardon, my queen?"
"Never mind. So, you're probably going to bed. "
Tina glanced down as if assuring herself that, yes, she was clean and freshly tubbed, and also wearing a nightgown as opposed to, say, a cocktail dress. "Yes, I was, but if you require anything at all-"
"No, no. No. I'm-" What exactly? Sulking and waiting for Sinclair to cough up an apology? Worrying about my sister? Not using the front hall so I wouldn't think about Antonia and Garrett? "I'm using the door, that's what I'm doing!"
Tina had backed up until her (permanently shapely) butt was pressed against the fridge. "As-as you wish, Majesty. "
"Damn right!"
Yeah! No one could accuse me of not using my own front door. No way, babies.
I was gonna use the hell out of the front door.
Chapter 13
l hate the front door.
Well, I do, and that was before The Thing. First off, it was practically the size and thickness of a redwood. Heavy as hell, even with hinges. No peephole . . . and given that most vampires knew where I lived, that was murderously stupid. Sort of like the asshats who occasionally came looking for me.
Plus, it opened onto an enormous foyer of marble and ancient furnishing and, on the housekeeper's off days, dust bunnies the size of orangutans. The house smelled like ancient wood, floor wax, and dead flowers. Everything was larger than life . . . Tall doorways. Marble everything. Tables that seated twenty. Chairs for the tables that looked like thrones. (Target doesn't carry chairs like that. I've looked. ) Someone who didn't know a thing about the house's residents would instantly sense we were all up to no good.
Subtle, it wasn't. And when the mistress of the obvious notices something isn't subtle? Brother, it's time to pack up and leave town, because the rain of fire was about to start.
Oh. Right. There was one other thing I didn't like about the front entryway. The library (one of the libraries) was just off said entryway, and the library was, in almost every way, worse than the front hall.
The Book of the Dead was kept in the library. Which was a lot like saying the bomb was kept in the garage next to the snowblower.
I crept toward the awful thing. And why not? It was barely November and the month already sucked rocks. What was the thing gonna do, give me demonically infectious paper cuts?
Nope. You needed paper for paper cuts. The Book of the Dead was written (in blood) by a(n) (insane) vampire, on human skin.
Collect the set!
I could feel my mouth trying to pull down into an unattractive frown as I sidled closer. Not that I had to worry about wrinkles. Only about turning evil and watching helplessly while roommates died. And, you know, taxes.
All the answers were in there. The Book of the Dead was never wrong. The thing was just sitting there on an old-fashioned, never-in-style book stand, mocking me. If my late stepmother were a book, she would be that book. All my questions could be answered. No more worrying . . . no more wondering, even.
Yep. All right there, if I didn't mind going insane. Now, I'm not t
he type to be picky, and one girl's insanity is another's too-many-daiquiris weekend, but the last time I'd overindulged I'd scared (and bitten) my best friend and raped my husband. (I never did decide what was worse: that I'd aggressively molested him or that he didn't notice I'd turned evil over the weekend. )
Have I mentioned the horrible, horrible thing was fireproof? And waterproof? Every time I tried to throw it away or destroy it, it came back. It was like being in one of those buy-ten-DVDs-for-$2. 99 clubs except more with the evil and not so much with the weekly mailings.
Still, it was tempting. Sure it was. Even though I knew it was dangerous-or was that because I knew it was dangerous? Because if I really had to give it some thought, I'd-
"What an unattractive frown. Since you can't rely on your brains, dear, you should try to stay pretty as long as you can. "
My heart took a great big ka-THUMP in my chest and I actually staggered. I knew that sly-sweet voice. First the book.
Now the devil.