“No.” I sniffed. “And thanks. That pretty much made my month.”
“If you cry,” she threatened, “I’ll never offer to help you run Hell ever again. You’ll have to screw it up entirely on your own.”
“Noted. Not crying. Or if I am, they are tears of evil.”
“Good,” she replied, relieved.
We stopped at the food court and got in a long line—like there were any other kind—was Cathie thirsty? But when people saw me, they parted. Hmm. Head of the line, a fringe benefit of killing the devil and taking over Hell. It didn’t seem like an even trade.
“Coke, please. Lots of ice.”
“Cathie, you know that won’t—”
“Here you are.”
Whoa. I blinked at the beverage, instantly handed over by the twenty-something working behind the counter. Her hapless food court uniform fit poorly and was the most unflattering shade of orange I had ever seen. The three-inch-wide button on her uniform shirt read, “Low-Quality Food for High-End Bucks!” Yep, that seemed about right.
The drink, now. The drink looked great. The red and white cup with the Coke colors and logo, first half-filled with crushed ice, then filled to the brim with the sparkling chocolate-brown carbonated liquid, looked like an oasis.
“Thanks,” Cathie replied with a heavy sigh and, at my curious expression, added, “I fucking hate Coke. Ever since I had a high fever in seventh grade and that was the only cold drink in the house besides water, which I also hate. Trust me, I’ll always be able to get a Coke or a bottle of Dasani here.”
I didn’t want to laugh; it wasn’t funny. But her doleful expression coupled with her usual no-punches-pulled demeanor made for a funny contrast. “I’ll pull some strings,” I promised. “We’ll have you swimming in iced tea in no time.”
“God, be careful what you say. That could literally happen to me here!”
Then I did laugh, and the woman I’d subconsciously (please, God, please let it be subconsciously) replaced as my sister laughed, too.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
This time I found myself entire yards from the toolshed, ankle deep in puppy shit. Woo-hoo!
Sinclair had fenced off a small area of the side yard for Fur and Burr, which he usually kept clean. But the li’l buggers had made some sort of sinister puppy pact and were quick to fill it up every time the previous week’s poop had been scooped.
Determined to stay positive, I shook some of the real poop from my imaginary shoes and thought that there was a time such an abomination would have sent me into a three-day red rage. This time I would only indulge in a three-hour red rage. Later. I had to bring the gang up to speed, and then I had to indulge in an emotional collapse. And Tina’s birthday party loomed, assuming I hadn’t missed it. Please, God, I need those things to happen and I need them in that order. I did you a solid this week! Don’t make an enemy out of me! Thank you, Jesus, amen.
I opened the kitchen door and stepped into the mudroom. It was a puppy-free zone, which meant . . .
Welcome back, my own.
Sinclair’s thought had all the warmth of a hot chocolate on an icy day. I toed off the shoes I wasn’t really wearing and popped them in the “Things We Got Dog Poop On by Mistake and Which Need to Be Cleaned, SINCLAIR!” box. Then I opened the mudroom door and found my family clustered in their usual spots around the butcher-block counter we used as a kitchen table. The smell of strawberries and blackberries hit me like a fruit-drenched wave. Jessica’s ire was more like a wave of impassioned bitchery.
“Nobody has it worse than single moms. Don’t bring up my money!” she added sharply before any of us had a chance to. “Hi, Betsy.”
“Hi. I wasn’t gonna bring up your millions and your ability to hire a fleet of nannies.”
“Good! Though with all the goings-on in this joint, can you imagine a regular ordinary human person plunked in the middle of it—”
“—and I definitely won’t bring up the fact that you’re best friends with the vampire queen, who could assign vamp minions to dote on your weird babies.”
“Why?” Marc asked, horrified, while His Name’s Definitely Dick groaned and covered his eyes. “Why would you come back from Hell and immediately pick a fight?”
“Because I just got back from Hell?”
“It’s not only single moms struggling with one income,” Jess added, not to be put off her rave.
Yeah, one gigantic income.
“It’s important, sure. It’s a huge factor. But it’s not about money; it’s about societal expectations. If a single dad is out and about with his kids, women melt all over him.”
“Like life-sized giggling butter pats,” I suggested, heading to the counter to see if the greedy bastards had slurped it all or if there was enough smoothie left for me. I didn’t trust the blender full o’ blackberry smoothie. Blackberries were wonderful in theory. Big and fat and sweet and gorgeous, but pop one in your mouth and you realize the thing’s all seed. “Oozing all over the single dads.” Raspberry! Slightly less seedy! Yes!
“It’s true,” Jess continued, again despite the fact that no one was arguing. “We see single dads with kids in a completely different light than we see single moms.”
My chauvinist husband and his sidekick, a recovering Southern belle, listened with carefully polite expressions. I admired Jessica’s determination to break them down and turn them into her version of feminists, even as I had zero interest in helping her. The most I would do to assist was not point out in front of everyone that a single millionaire mom whose babies were only weeks old wasn’t necessarily the expert on either a) motherhood or b) feminism.
So there it is, proof that I belong in Hell.
“Women see the dad at the park, they love it. They see the evidence of his fertility, they assume he’s the main income in that household—most people don’t think palimony—and they see he’s also nurturing because he’s at a park with his children, stop the presses, right?”
“Right?” Tina replied, no doubt hoping that was the answer Jessica wanted.
“Except it only goes one way. Because when a guy meets a single mom, the more kids she has, the more turned off he is. He’s got zero interest in her fertility and assumes she’s either divorced and on alimony or was never married and is a slut. Or figures she trapped the guy with her uterus. As for the fact that she’s out in a park with her kids, that’s what moms are supposed to do, right?”
“I don’t want to get into a thing here,” I began, cautious, as if someone had told me the kitchen had been booby-trapped, which in a way it had been, “because you make some good points—”
“But mothers are supposed to be nurturing,” Tina said, the lovely moron.
Jess made a rude noise. “I know, Scarlett, but so are dads!”
And there it was. It wasn’t about Jess finally agreeing to allow Just Plain Dick to haul her narrow ass to the altar, it was about the fact that Jessica’s father was an unrelenting shithead pervert fuck-o of the highest order and though she’d been engaged for maybe a half hour she was already freaking out about it. So glad I got back in time for the meltdown.
Again: no question, I deserved Hell.
“I’m not sure we have time to get into this right now,” I tried again. Which was bullshit, because I was pretty sure we did. For the first time in days, I felt like I could take a break. I just didn’t want to take a feminist break, if that’s a thing.
Jess shook her head. “You putzes are so lucky I’m exhausted.”
“Yep,” I agreed. Time to get off the sensitive subject of single moms and switch to the sensitive subject of a Southern belle aging. “Did I miss Tina’s party?” At Marc’s glare, I backpedaled. “I’m sorry. Was it a surprise?”
“Not anymore,” he said pointedly.
“Come on,” I coaxed, “you weren’t really plann
ing a surprise party.”
“Not anymore.”
“In this house? You can’t keep a secret around here, you know that.”
Marc’s grumpy expression eased a bit. Tina, meanwhile, looked both relieved (the single-mom thing shelved for another time) and pleased (aw, you shouldn’t have!). “I don’t want a fuss, Marc.” Good, because wish granted, probably. Then she turned to me. “If there’s to be any sort of celebration, of course we wouldn’t indulge unless you were there to partake as well.”
“So we’ll put it off a few months,” I joked. “I’ll just say it now so I’m off the hook: happy birthday.”
“Thank you, Majesty.”
“No offense, and we’re doing a lot more than just wishing you happy birthday, but can’t we please make Betsy tell us about Hell?” Marc begged. “We’re all here. The babies are in their milk comas. The adults are all awake at the same time and in the same room in the house at the same time.” Hmm. Good point, a rare event. “And the dogs don’t care.”
For the first time I realized Marc was cradling a yawning Fur or Burr, and Sinclair had Burr or Fur in his lap and was slowly stroking the fuzz on the top of her head while she snored. “They sure don’t. They’re lucky they’re cute. It’s the only thing that keeps us from drowning them.”
Us????? Sinclair clutched Fur or Burr closer to his body and actually leaned away from me. Please. Like I’d really drown them when I could just dispatch them with a well-placed stomp. Again: please. Like I’d ruin a pair of shoes for that.
“Sure,” Dick said through a yawn, “regale us with tales of Hell. You’re gonna win every single ‘my day was worse than yours’ contest from now on, aren’t you?”
“Hey, I hadn’t thought of that,” I replied, pleased. The perks were few and far between, but they were adding up.
“Unless, of course, Her Majesty cannot discuss such things with us.” Most people wouldn’t have heard Tina’s tiny pause between “with” and “us.” Because she meant, Maybe the vampires should leave the room and go have grown-up time somewhere else and you guys do whatever it is you do when we’re not hanging.
“Her Majesty definitely wants to discuss it with you,” I assured them. “I’ve learned exactly one thing this week.”
“Just the one?” Marc asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Okay, I’ve learned more than one thing but the thing I’ve internalized is—”
“Be careful what you wish for?”
(. . .)
“Okay, I’ve learned two things this week. Be careful what you wish for, and also, I can’t do this by myself.”
“Well,” Dick said after a short silence. I appreciated how he didn’t finish the sentence with “duh.” “You know we’re always ready to help.”
“You might want to think that one over,” I warned, hauling a stool to the counter. I’d grabbed a glass and gotten the last of the raspberry smoothie dregs, and now planned to savor that while sitting on my ass. Goals, it was important to have goals. “Because starting now, helping me will mean more than occasionally picking up my dry cleaning.”
“You never have dry cleaning,” Marc pointed out.
“And if you did, we’d die a thousand deaths before picking it up, you lazy jerk,” Jessica added.
“Stop, you’ll make me cry.” I wasn’t entirely joking. I realized there was a third lesson for the week—okay, clearly there were many things to take away from the last several days, but the big three now included my realization that I’d been complaining about something that was actually pretty wonderful.
“I’ve picked a few souls in Hell to help me get the place back up to speed. If that’s even the phrase, because I’ve got no idea what my idea of ‘up to speed’ will be. Stuff’s gonna change. I’m just not sure what, or how. And the thing is . . .” I took a quick gulp. Now that I was back from Hell, I realized how thirsty I was. Sinclair picked the hunger out of my head and speared me with a steady, warm look.
Perhaps we need to go hunting tonight.
I shot him a smile that, though I was going for aloof and sexy, probably came out deranged and a little goofy, and continued. “You know how I’m always complaining—”
“Sure.”
“Yes, you have several things to say at all times.”
“Stop!” I shouted before Jessica, Tina, and Sinclair could add to the madness. “Will you let me be specific, jerkheads? It seems like the people I’ve always wanted to be impressed with my powers never are. But they’re the ones helping me run Hell, and most of the rest are my roommates. And I think that’s beyond excellent, because there’s nothing worse than a dictatorial asshat being surrounded by terrified yes-men.”
“Just ask Justin Bieber,” Marc suggested, earning a smack on the arm from Tina (who had a motherly soft spot for the li’l douchebag) and a giggle from Jessica.
“It used to drive me crazy,” I admitted. “It still drives me crazy. Who wouldn’t want to intimidate the Ant? But I think it’s good that the people I want the most control over, sometimes—they’re the ones who either knew me before I died or don’t care that I’m the vampire queen. It’s good that the Ant isn’t scared of me. She’ll be more of a help if she isn’t terrified.”
“A help.” From Jessica.
“Yeah.”
“The Ant.” From Marc.
“Yeah.”
“That’s how you know it’s Hell.” From Jessica.
“Oh yeah.” I grinned—I couldn’t help it—and she laughed again, which got the rest of us started.
Tina was quickest to recover and got right to it politely but decisively, as was her way. “Majesty, have you been able to recapture the escapee souls?”
“Whoa, people escaped from Hell?” Dick looked around at us. “Where was I?”
“You might have been sleeping. You both were definitely, uh, sleeping.” So of course we all knew by Marc’s tactful pause that they’d been doing the “yay, marriage looms!” bang.
“It’s fine. I didn’t have to round up any escapees. And we gotta call them something else, since they didn’t so much escape as act on the fact that Laura let them go to trick me into keeping the promise I stupidly, stupidly gave in a moment of weakness.”
An uncomfortable, decade-long silence dropped. And that’s when I realized.
“You guys knew. Or guessed.”
“I respectfully request the protection of the Fifth Amendment,” Sinclair said. Marc shrugged and Jess wouldn’t drop her gaze, but it was sympathetic and not scornful.
“Cheer up,” Dick said. “I had no idea.”
I was already shaking my head. “You all knew. Most of you knew.” I sighed. “Of course you knew.” That was when I realized we weren’t just talking about Laura lying about escapees. My, my, it was a week for me to stumble across realizations I would have tumbled to ages earlier if I had just pulled my thumb out of my ass. How much time did I waste, hiding from truths I couldn’t face? Were lives lost? Oh, please not that on my conscience, too. Please.
My love. Sinclair’s concern cut through my distress like Fur’s sewing-needle-sharp teeth razored through his Kenneth Coles. I should like us to withdraw.
Yeah. I rubbed my forehead. Yeah, me, too.
“If Laura lied, the Ant probably knew that, too. Right?” Marc thought about that for a few seconds. “Oh, hell, of course she did, what a dumb question.”
“Don’t feel bad. Took me too long to figure that out. It was there in front of me and I still wouldn’t see it. That’s why she wouldn’t leave Hell.”
“No.”
“Yes.” I understood the identical looks of shock on Marc and Jessica. Dick was starting to look dozy and Tina and Sinclair wore their careful neutral expressions. “She was always there when I needed something and, let me tell you, that shit got on my nerves almost immediately. I even asked her a few times
what she was doing there and she’d snark at me and then I’d kind of forget about it until she’d helpfully yet bitchily show up again. But she was always there when I needed something.”
“She knew what the Antichrist was up to, and she still stuck around?”
“Yep. And now she knows Laura’s off the paranormal grid. And the Ant’s still in Hell. Waiting.” Funny how that should have been terrifying, and wasn’t.
I watched them think that one over, and I sympathized. Laura Goodman, the sister who professed to love me, who when not killing or lying had judged me for dishonesty and murder and then tricked me into taking on Hell. Her birth mother, my mortal enemy and the scourge of my adolescence, meanwhile, went out of her way to help with the burden of shit she knew was headed my way. And she also knew what my dad had been up to and refused to say, partly to save her own pride, but also because she knew I’d be devastated.
“It’s too much,” I said, before they could comment, and burst into violent tears. In an instant, Jess’s bony arms were around me in a comforting pointy-elbowed hug. “I don’t understand what’s happened.” I wept while the others made distressing “there, there” noises. Fur and Burr both started awake and whined in sympathy, then began wriggling like worms on a grill to get down. Marc and Sinclair released them and they wasted no time rushing over to my feet and—yargh, needle-like puppy teeth!—nibbling on my toes in solidarity. I think. “I—I’m not sure I can live in a world where I’m in Hell, Laura and Dad are out of my life, and the Ant is looking out for me and protecting me.”
“Shhhh, stop that, it’s fine,” Jess soothed. “I’m sure she’s still completely horrible. You’re just not looking hard enough.”
“Th-thanks. That helps.” I straightened. It did help. The Ant and I might have the uneasiest of truces, but we weren’t even close to best pals. Despite her help of late, there were still plenty of things besides her fashion sense to loathe her for.
Sinclair had scooped up both puppies and deposited them