Real Satanists had apparently tracked Laura down via astrology (not my field, so much of the explanation I got later went right over my head). Apparently, just as there was a star of Bethlehem, there is also a Morningstar, which shows up just before the Antichrist comes into her maturity.
?????
Seriously, dude, I know how it sounds. A star? Laura’s own star, shining down on the planet like a treasure map leading Satanists to our door? (And why not her apartment? Why Betsy’s place?) A star that didn’t show until her maturity, what the hell did that mean? The star didn’t show itself until she had a driver’s license? A passport? Until she was legal drinking age? What?
Laura either didn’t know, or wasn’t saying, pardon me while I evince a complete lack of surprise. And I suppose it doesn’t matter. What matters is the star is here (I plan to dip into my savings first thing tomorrow and buy a decent telescope to set up in the yard . . . I simply have to see this puppy for myself) and people who have read the right books and worshipped the right demon and made the right sacrifices (I’m guessing on that last one, but the movies can’t be all wrong, right? Memo to me: Netflix Rosemary’s Baby.).
Anyway, the right people can now track Laura down pretty much at will.
Which is why, when I walked into the house after a milk run, I nearly tripped over the dozen people kneeling in front of Laura, who was blushing like a tomato. A demonic tomato. I was instantly alarmed; she was so fire-? hydrant red, so incredibly flushed, I was afraid she was going to stroke out, and I almost dropped the milk.
They had (not on purpose, I’m sure of that) backed Laura into a corner of the kitchen and were moaning and praying.
Yeah. Praying. Praying to Laura.
I don’t know what I should do with this information, not to mention the stuff that happened afterward. Betsy has enough on her plate these days. And it wasn’t like Laura had killed anybody.
In fact, the way she handled it was nothing short of hilarious. She—
Wait. She’s calling me from the hallway. More later, dude.
Chapter 15
When I next opened my eyes, it was, according to the grandfather clock bonging away at the other end of our suite, four o’clock. Our bedroom was utterly gloomy, thanks to all the heavy curtains, so I stretched and sat up, swung my legs over the bed, and thought about what to do.
Sinclair was still—ha, ha—dead to the world beside me. He was on his side, one arm flung out, palm up. His normally pin-?neat hair was a ruffled dark mass; his lips were slightly parted.
I watched his chest for a long time . . . three minutes, almost. I think it rose once. But he felt like living flesh; he was warm (we’re speaking comparably, of course). He wasn’t a corpse, he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t alive, either.
Undead.
Stupid word, I’ve always hated that word.
This was the part of every day when I deeply pitied my husband, and I would never tell him. Sinclair needed me for several things—pity wasn’t one of them. He didn’t have to sleep all day, and he could stay awake when the sun came up (unlike yours truly, who would drop like a puppet with her strings cut as soon as it was dawn) but he could never, ever go out into the sun.
I, however, could.
So I got to my feet and checked on BabyJon, who we’d set up in the small sitting room. And by the way? The guy who invented the port-?a-?crib? A genius of Jonas Salk proportions.
Anyway, he was in his crib, flat on his back with his little arms in the “this is the police, put your hands up” position. If he grew up to be anything like the Ant, he couldn’t practice that position soon enough.
I couldn’t help but smile when I looked at him. Don’t get me wrong, it was unfortunate that my father and his wife died. But BabyJon was mine, now.
Forever.
Best of all, he was adjusting to the new sleeping schedule. After all, I can’t have a kid running around during the day when I sleep. No, BabyJon was officially on graveyard shift now, and for a long time to come.
I wondered what I would tell him when he was older. “Mom, why is there an unconscious man stuffed in the closet?”
“Nothing to worry about, dear, Mommy just wanted a snack.”
Hmm. Better rethink that one. Later. Besides, since he’d be growing up with us, he’d probably think it’s normal for parents to stay up all night and never eat solid food. Or age. Or poop.
A problem for another time, so I popped into the bathroom, which was more or less unnecessary, but old habits, right? Sometime during our late-?night chat with the Wyndhams, a castle employee had unpacked our clothes and stocked the bathroom. Good stuff, too—Aveda products.
Feeling minty fresh, I left the bathroom, and pulled on brown velvet leggings and a long-?sleeved blue flannel shirt. I was always cold, and had long since donated all my tank tops to Goodwill. I slipped into my Cole Haan Penny Air Loafers and was ready to face the day. What was left of it, anyway.
I had to walk through the rest of the suite, and after a second I realized that our suite was on the west side of the castle. Okay, mansion—really huge, amazing mansion. That looked, to my Midwestern eyes, awfully like a castle.
Someone was being pretty thoughtful. Never let it be said that werewolves weren’t polite hosts—I only had to look around our guest suite to see that. But I drew all the curtains anyway, just to be on the safe side. I didn’t want to take the smallest chance that Sinclair might get burned. The sun wouldn’t go down for another four hours or so.
I stepped out into the hallway, pulled the door closed, and nearly fell over Jessica, who was all but lurking in the doorway of the suite directly across from ours.
“You know, they did let you have that room,” I said. “In fact, I think they’re assuming you’ll use it, as opposed to lingering in strange hallways.”
She responded to me with, “Girl, I am bored outta my tits.”
“Can we have one cross-?country quest without talking about your tits?”
Her pretty dark eyes went narrow and thoughtful, and she caressed her cheek with a long fingernail colored jack-?o’-lantern orange. After a thoughtful pause, she shook her head. “I don’t see how.”
“I figured.” I scanned the hallway and listened hard: it was as empty as it looked. “Want to find the kitchen? Maybe whip up a—”
“If I have to look at another smoothie this month, I’m going to barf in one of your Beverly Feldmans.”
“And face a terrible, prolonged death.” We fell in step and, when we reached the main staircase, I pointed in the direction of the kitchen—or whatever room smelled like spices, meat, and fresh vegetables.
“How can you be bored in the middle of a Pack of werewolves?”
“Easy. They’re not talking to me. The ones I bump into are soooo polite—bathroom’s right there, the east wing’s over there, one of the indoor pools is through there, the weight room is over there—but I’m a cipher here.”
Jessica, well used to my blank expression, correctly interpreted it as “I am unfamiliar with that word; please explain” and added, “I’m a nobody. A nothing. A zero. This is about vampires and werewolves, which, thank God, I’m neither. No offense.”
“Who could be offended by that?” I muttered, jumping down the last four steps. “That way. Then a right. So, they’ve been nice to you at least?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Listen, I think it’s really good that you’re here—”
“You’re the worst liar in the galaxy.”
“Shut up. Anyway, I sort of forced BabyJon on Sinclair—”
“This I already knew. The entire street knew,” she added thoughtfully.
“—because we’re his parents now and we have to learn how to be a family—”
