What was going on with everybody?
Chapter 13
All the way home, I was practically gasping for breath. Which, as I didn't need to breathe, made me dizzy. So I held my breath for five minutes, trying to calm down. It worked. A little.
Nick knew? A Minneapolis detective knew I was a vampire, that my runaway groom was a vampire? How many other cops knew? Even if he was the only one (and one was waaay too many), what if he found out about Antonia the werewolf, assuming the walkabout wench ever came back? And Garrett? And if Jessica got worse or —oh God please no—died, what was he going to do? What the fuck was I going to do?
Mojoing him was out. Sinclair's clearly hadn't taken. Or had taken for a while and then worn off.
II why? Sinclair was a pretty damned powerful vampire—old, and the king besides.
I took a yellow light way too fast, remembered Babyjon trapped—I mean strapped—in the car seat behind me, and slowed to a reasonable speed.
Why had Sinclair's “you are getting very sleepy” routine worn off? He could make people forget their own mothers. Was it because—it couldn't be. Naw. That was idiocy and worse, ego.
But. . . well, I couldn't shake the idea that because the long-?prophesied queen of the vampires (moi) had gotten to Nick first, Sinclair never had a chance. That lie maybe fixed it for a while, but my power was too strong, and eventually Nick remembered.
Naw. That was too conceited, even for me.
Although it was pretty much the only thing that made sense, unless Nick had been lying about Jess not telling him. And I knew in my dead heart that Jessica would set herself on fire before telling my secrets.
Sure, the Book of the Dead prophesied that I would be the strongest, coolest, most badass vampire in a thousand years, but I still had trouble actually grasping it, you know? Shit, sixteen months ago I was a secretary dreading her thirtieth birthday. But the Book had been right about everything else. So why not this?
Which meant, maybe the way to fix this was to mojo Nick myself.
Except I wasn't sure I dared. For one thing, he would be ready for that—for me.
For another, I wasn't keen on mind-?raping my best friend's boyfriend.
And for another, what right did I have to wipe anybody's brain, even if it was dangerous not to? I wasn't God. I was just me, Betsy, one-?time secretary and part-?time vampire and soon-?to-?be married woman.
I screeched into my driveway, decamped with Babyjon, hustled through the front door and up the stairs to his nursery. Changed him, fed him, burped him, all the while trying to figure out what to do about Nick. And Jessica. And Sinclair. And Antonia. And—
The door chimes rang, and I leapt out of the rocking chair, gaining another gasping burp from my brother. I plopped him into the crib (it was 6:30 p.m.—time for his mid-?afternoon nap) and hustled down the stairs.
Yippee! Who would it be? Did Garrett eat his key again so they couldn't get to it? Had Sinclair sent flowers? Was Nick waiting on the porch with a twelve gauge shotgun? Was it my mom? (I would consider listening to an apology.) Had Marc escaped the clutches of whatever madman had snatched him from his shift at the ER? Had Tina's coffin been rolled in from the airport? And would I have to sign for it? Was Laura stopping by with her usual sweetness to offer condolences and offer to take Babyjon off my hands?
Who cared? It was somebody, by God. I wasn't going to be rattling around the house by myself a minute longer, and that was cause for a Hallelujah brother!
I yanked the door open, a cry of welcome (or “Holster that sidearm, Nick”) on my lips. I had just enough time to register the gleam of a wedding ring, as a fist the size of both of mine smashed into my face, knocking me back into the foyer.
Chapter 14
“Ouch, dammit!“ I yelped, skidding on my back like a bug and coming to a teeth-?rattling stop against the parlor door. I was splayed in a most undignified way, luckily wearing walking shorts and not a miniskirt. And my jaw hurt like a bitch. So did my head, from where it had banged into the door. I responded to the indignity in the usual way. ”Ouch. Dammit!'
While I was swearing, several people had come in (uninvited!), and all of them were looking down at me.
Wedding Ring Asshole crouched, blinked big yellow owl eyes at me, and said, 'So it's true. You're a vampire. No mortal would be breathing after that one.
“Who's breathing?” I bitched. I started to sit up, but Wedding Ring Asshole quickly stood, planted his foot in the middle of my chest, and kept me flat on my back. “Oh, now. That's just plain rude. I mean, ruder.” “You have much to answer for,” he informed me. He was a fabulous looking fellow, I'll give the asshat that much. Tall, really tall. Brown hair and gold eyes. Not light brown, not hazel. Gold, like old coins. Not like an owl, more like. . . a lynx? A lion? Whatever. He was as powerfully built as Sinclair, and easily as tall. And I hadn't been laid in—
Never mind. Focus, Betsy! “Get your foot off my tits right now.” Nobody puts his foot on my tits. It's a good rule to live by.
“After we talk.”
“Oh, dude. You are so picking the wrong week to fuck with me.”
“Produce my Pack member at once,” W.R.A. demanded.
In response, I grabbed his ankle and twisted his foot all the way around. A hundred eighty degrees! Or would that be three sixty? Either way, he howled—an actual howl, like a dog!—and fell backward, losing his balance as his pulverized ankle collapsed under his weight. I flipped to my feet (well, more like staggered, but the important thing is, I was standing), momentarily triumphant.
I say momentarily because this did not make the other ones—four? five?—happy at all. I'm guessing this, because they all jumped on me at once. Unlike what happens in a karate movie, these guys didn't take turns. Nope, it was dog-?pile time, with me on the bottom. (Did that make me the dog? Oh, never mind.)
I jerked my face to the side, just as a fist slammed through the floorboards where my head had been. “Wait. Wait!” I screamed.
Three fists (from two different people!) paused in midair, as I pulled my legs up, yanked off my saddle shoes (vintage, 1956, eBay, $296.26), and threw them into a corner.
“Okay,” I said. “Go.”
I blocked (barely) another fist, catching it on my crossed forearms a la Uma Thurman in Kill Bill (either one). I had zero martial arts training, but by God, I'd remember anything Uma did.
Fighting these guys was like dodging bullets: I could do it, but I sure as shit had to pay attention. They were fist. They were unbelievably fast. Old vampire fast. And their smell. Their iron-?rich smell. It was tough Work, fighting them off and trying not to bite them at the same time.
I clawed my way back to the top of the pile through sheer force of will and, oh yeah, almost forgot, super human strength and reflexes. Not that these guys were too shabby in the area of paranormal abilities, either. Bums.
I managed to duck a few more punches and deal a few of my own, took a bite—a bite!—to the shoulder from one of them, and responded with a knee in the groin and a fist in the belly, so deep I thought I touched the guy's spine.
I took another punch to the nose (ow!) from a tank-?top wearing brunette (the buzz cut was not for everyone, but it looked fabulous on her) and retaliated by stomping on the gal's ankle, smirking at the crunch, and the shriek.
I shouldn't have been smiling, I should have been pissed. Okay, I was pissed. But at least I was doing something instead of waiting for the phone to ring. If I couldn't squabble with Sinclair or bitch to Jessica, a knock-? down, drag-?out fight in my foyer was the next best thing.
