“I know, I know. I've been answering the phone and the door. It's all gone horribly, horribly wrong, and all because I didn't listen to you.” I slung Babyjon over my shoulder to burp him, tossing the now-?empty bottle in the general direction of the sink. “If only I had listened.” Babyjon yawned, and I knew how he felt. The lecture loometh.
“Majesty, I do not wish to alarm you—”
“Then don't.”
“But I fear the king may be dead.”
“See, that? I find that alarming.” I whacked Babyjon a little too hard, because he groaned—then belched. I plunked him into the port-?a-?crib so I could pace.
“I'm sorry, Majesty, but it is the only conclusion that fits the data.”
“What the hell makes you think that?”
“He would have answered me by now, Majesty. In seventy-?some years, he has never not answered me. We have a code we use for emergencies, and the other one, no matter what is happening in his or her life, the other one must answer. And he has not.”
“He blew off your super secret vampire code?”
“I realize that infantile jokes are your way of dealing with serious issues, but with all due respect, Majesty, now is not the time.”
“Noted,” I said, chastened.
“He is not sulking, as you think. He is not hiding. He is not shirking his duties as your groom. And more —”
“What? There's more? What?”
“He would never abandon the queen,” she said quietly. 'No matter how silly he thought the wedding rituals. Someone has him. Or someone has killed him.”
“What—what are we going to do?”
I heard a thud and realized that Tina, from eighty zillion miles away, had punched a wall. “I. Will do. Nothing!” Another thud. She was pounding the wall like Rocky Balboa worked a punching bag. “I cannot get back to you. There are riots in France , and all flights are canceled until further notice.”
“Riots?”
“Surely you saw on CNN—never mind.”
“Oh, the riots! Right, right. The riots. Those pesky French riots.”
She ignored my lame-?ass attempt to pretend I was up on current events. “I cannot even charter a private plane. To go by boat would take too long. I am trapped here, Majesty. And you are alone.”
“Tina, it's—” Okay, I had been about to say, a who was I kidding? Tina, one of the smartest people I'd ever met, thought Sinclair was dead. Ergo, he…wasn't.
I would take refuge in my stubbornness. She was wrong, wrong, wrong and also needed a deep conditioning treatment. I wouldn't let the panic take hold. I wouldn't. It couldn't have me. The panic would have to find someone else to bug; I wasn't going to play ball. Sinclair wasn't dead. Or even in danger.
Tina was wrong. This one time, in a matter that was as important to her as it was to me, this one time she had screwed up. Who knew why? The stress of being away from home? The hassle of going through Customs via coffin? The important thing was, she was stressed out and jumping to conclusions. Because the alternative was totally beyond my grasp. I couldn't imagine a world without Sinclair in it. And wasn't that silly? Two years ago, I hadn't even known the guy existed.
“Tina, stop hitting that wall. You're going to hurt yourself.”
“I did,” she said dully. “I broke most of the fingers my left hand.”
“Jeez, what are you punching, cement?”
“Yes.”
“Well, stop. Focus on getting back.”
“But the rioters—the roads are closed, or barricaded. No one can get in or out. I cannot help you, my queen, I am stuck in this place.”
“Place” came out like “placcccce” because Tina hissed it as opposed to saying it like person who wasn't half crazy with guilt and grief.
More riots in France! Perfect timing. So typical of France not to consider my needs before passing martial law.
“I know it seems tough, but they'll eventually let planes out, they've got to. For one thing, FedEx can't get there. People need their overnight packages, Tina! They want their Sephora and their cheese. The French people won't stand for it, trust me, the airports won't be closed for long. Or at least get out of the country and take a plane from a country that isn't rioting in the streets.”
“That is. . . excellent advice, Majesty.” I could hear the surprise in her voice, but couldn't blame her. It was weird enough Tina hadn't thought of it. Weirder that I had. It showed how upset she real was. And how convinced she was that Sinclair was dead, how rattled her conclusions had made her. “I will start at once. With your permission, I will not waste your time with phone calls unless I have new to report.”
“That's fine, Tina.”
“And, Majesty?”
“Yeah?”
“Consider now following my advice. Do not answer the phone, do not answer the door. I doubt whoever ki —”
“Don't say it!”
“—I doubt whoever detained His Majesty will be content only with him.”
“That's better. Detained. Yep, that's the word of the day, all right. Listen, be careful.”
“You took the words,” she said, “right out of my mouth.” And without so much as a “See ya later, gator,” she hung up.
Chapter 21
He is not dead.
He is not dead.
He is not dead, because if he was? I'd kill him.
But I had to face facts. Sinclair wasn't sulking. For one thing, it wasn't his style. He liked to engage, not withdraw. For another, as silly as he thought the wedding stuff was? He'd never stick me with all of the prep less than two weeks before the big day.
Well, he might stick me with it, but he wouldn't out-?and-?out disappear on me. Even when I thought I hated him, he'd been impossible to get rid of Now, when we loved each other, he'd made himself scarce? Not likely.
Tina was half right: someone had snatched him. But who? And how come? And where the heck was he?
I glanced over and saw Babyjon had tired of playing with his soft blocks and toppled over on his side, one thumb corking his mouth shut. He watched me with sleepy blue eyes as I paced, as I grumbled and thought and chewed my nails and prowled back and forth.
Finally I sat down at the kitchen table, folded my hands, looked at my folded hands, and thought: this is not a coincidence.
I thought: Sinclair and Marc and Antonia and Garrett and Cathie and Tina and Jessica and Nick and a double funeral and Laura and my mom? All those people either missing or deliberately absenting themselves from my life? And now, of all times? The week my dad and the Ant died? Two weeks before I married the King of the Vampires? Granted, I remember wishing everyone would leave me alone for a few days, but this was ridiculous.
I thought: Who killed my father and my stepmother? Because this was all just a little too neat, you know? Too neat by a damn shot.
Didn't they know they were fucking with the queen of the vampires? (Whoever “they” were?) Didn't they know what I—we—could do to them?
