I didn't know. But I was going to find out.
I pulled up outside a dilapidated warehouse, which I knew was beautiful and spacious inside, filled with thousands of books and state-?of-?the-?art computers. Marjorie's digs. Her lair. Fucking she-?spider.
I didn't bother knocking, just shoved the big double doors open and stomped inside. Like all important confrontations in my life, this one was anticlimactic. Marjorie was nowhere to be found.
The place looked the way it usually did. . . lots of low lighting, comfortable chairs, benches. Lots of conference tables and chairs. Row after row of computers. Quiet as a grave (really!), and smelling like reams and reams of old paper. Oh, and dust. And Pledge!
Well, a case of Pledge wasn't going to stop me. It wasn't even going to slow me down. I'd—
(Elizabeth)
“Eric?” I whispered. That tiny voice in the back of my brain, previously so faint I couldn't make out who it was, or even what it was saying, was now quite a bit clearer.
I sniffed. Stupid Lemon Pledge, I wasn't getting anything but—I sniffed harder. Ah! There we go. Yep. Sinclair had been here. Was maybe still here. I stiffened like an English setter on point, then followed the scent through several doorways and down two flights of stairs into a dank basement.
My heels didn't make a sound on the carpeted stairs, which was fine with me, as I was busy trying to look in fifteen directions at once. Had Sinclair really been one town over the entire time? And where was she keeping him, that I could barely hear him? What had she done to him?
The place didn't look like a torture chamber. It looked like what it was: an old library, well-?maintained, with plenty of money for books and computers. Heck, plenty of money for fluorescent lights as opposed to, say, torches sticking out of the wall.
I finished with the stairs and slid open the huge door in front of me—down there, at least, the place looked like a warehouse. The door rattled past me, and the smell of mildew and sweat assaulted my delicate, queenish nostrils.
The first thing I saw was Antonia in a spacious cage, the kind they used to cage Dr. Lector in The Silence of the Lambs. She was shaking the bars, and I remembered how claustrophobic she was. Her dark hair was matted with sweat, and her face was pale; she stank to high heaven, and her clothes were filthy. Her big eyes rolled toward me, like an animal in a killing pen, and she greeted me with a shrieked, “Get me out! ”
Then I saw the coffins. Two of them, chained shut and draped with. . . were those rosaries? Yes. Dozens, covering almost every inch of the top of the coffins.
(Elizabeth)
I ran to the one nearest me and stripped the rosaries away, then yanked at the chains until they tore and bent in my hands. I didn't know how Marjorie had placed them—wearing asbestos gloves, maybe? I didn't care. I just had to get him out and face whatever hunger and crosses had done to him.
“Me first, me first, me firrrrssssssttttt!”
I flipped the top off the coffin and bit back a scream. Sinclair, yes. Incredibly wizened, incredibly old. Shrunken. Dried out. His lips were drawn back so his fangs were prominent. He looked a thousand years old. He looked dead.
“Oh my God!” I cried. “Oh, Sinclair! Tell me what to do! How can I—”
“Did your mother never teach you to call before dropping by? Oh, I'm prepared to validate your parking whenever you wish. How clever of you to park right out in the open like that.”
I spun so fast I nearly went sprawling. Marjorie was descending the last of the steps; I'd been so caught up in freeing Sinclair I'd never heard her.
“You cunt .”
“You infant.”
“Why?” I had to yell to be heard over Antonia's howls of rage. She was unusually bitchy during the full moon during the best of times. . . which this certainly was not. “Why did you do this?”
“You made it necessary.”
I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch her sly face in. “What the hell does that even mean?”
She stepped into the room, looking neat and trim in her tweed suit and sensible shoes. “He can't keep you in line. Case in point, your monthly newspaper column. Your autobiography, the fall fiction offering! You live your life openly—everyone around you knows your true nature. You collect people instead of living a solitary life. This is incredibly dangerous, to all you claim to rule. You left me no choice.”
“You don't agree with the way I live my life, and so you do this?”
“As I said, you forced me to.”
“Oh, right. Kidnapping, false imprisonment, torture. Blame me .”
She shrugged. “Unlike you, I do what must be done. Unlike him, I'm not besotted with your dubious charms. By keeping Sinclair under my control, I'll be able to keep you under control. Because someone has to take charge. And you clearly aren't up to it.”
“But—but—”
“I have him. I'll keep him. And I'll kill him the moment you don't do as I say.”
“But I am the queen!”
“You're a fluke. An accident. And now, you'll be my tool.”
She followed my glance into the open coffin. Sinclair was still doing his impersonation of a wizened mummy. “I knew he wouldn't go along with my idea. So I needed him to come and see me. He brought these two— unexpected, but I could deal with them.” She glared at Antonia, who was making an ungodly amount of noise rattling her bars.
“But why would he come see you so quickly?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Because I had information for him. Information is power; libraries are full of power. I can change records, reveal deaths, make up new ones, transfer ownership. I can change the facts, change history, if I like. I can grow my own power base and even presume to be queen myself someday, if I like. Eventually, I can discard you on the rubbish heap of rumor and misinformation. Betsy Taylor was no queen—she was a pretender, or a prophet, or whatever I'd like to make her. Who, exactly, will dispute the facts with me? The only vampires old enough to know better are in Europe. Would they argue if you die? If Sinclair did?”
I was trying to follow all this. “What information did you tell him you had?”
“I told him your engagement ring was cursed.”
“And he fell for that?”
“Of course. Because it is.”
“Aw, say it isn't so.” I examined my diamond and ruby ring. “Cursed how?”
“Did you ever read The Monkey's Paw? ”
“In high school.”
'What a pleasant surprise. Here I thought I'd have to show you the picture book. Well, as in that story, your ring grants wishes. But always at a cost. You see, the stones were stolen from an Egyptian tomb. They followed quite a path before they got to me. I split them up and spread their pieces around the world. For research purposes.
“One actually made it back to me here years ago, set in a beautiful antique ring. I buried it far enough away where it couldn't hurt me, but where I could still find it if I thought it might come in handy. And so it did, when Sinclair actually came to me a few months ago and asked me if I knew of any special jewelry he could give you for engagement purposes!” She laughed. “He actually paid me a quarter of a million dollars for it. I couldn't wait to see what you wished for.”
A thousand thoughts were whirling through my brain. The zombie, who showed up without explanation three months ago. Tina and Sinclair had tried, and failed, to figure out why it had come. They hadn't even known zombies existed. A total mystery, unsolved until now. But hadn't I wished for a real challenge when the Europeans were in town? A way to prove to myself that I was worthy of my title?
I had wished for everyone to go away and leave me alone—I had never felt more isolated than this past week.
And I had wished for a baby of my own. And then my father. . . and the Ant. . .
“Oh God,” I moaned. I was fairly certain I was going to pass out. I had killed my father! My father! (And the
