Undead and Unemployed (Undead #2)

Undead and Unemployed (Undead #2) Page 29

So now I'm living with stupid Sinclair and stupid Tina in a gigantic mansion that I can't afford. And I'm undead and unemployed. Again.

Okay, well, Tina's not so stupid. In fact, I kind of like her when she's not startling me with her core of utter ruthlessness. Plus, she makes a mean strawberry smoothie. Even Sinclair drinks them! I guess he really loves strawberries. I gotta change my shampoo.

Strange vampires keep dropping by to show tribute. Apparently Monique's little coup failure has been making the gossip channels, because dead people are falling all over themselves to stop by and say howdy. For some reason, they bring blood oranges. Sinclair says it's tradition. I say it's cracked. The fridge is full of the damned things.

I thought Marc and Jessica were nuts to open their-our-home to more vampires, but Marc earnestly explained that he doesn't think of Tina and Eric as undead. I bet he'd change his mind if either one of them ever got hungry enough.

As for Jessica, she's made up her mind that as long as Sinclair and I are meant to be, we might as well start getting used to each other. And it'd be rude to leave Tina out, since she and Eric are practically brother and sister. Thus, we are now roommates. I searched her room, but could find no evidence of drug use.

It's unbelievably nerve-wracking to come downstairs and find Sinclair already in the tea room, reading the Wall Street Journal and getting a smirk ready.

Not to mention, I've been fighting the almost constant temptation to sneak into his room wearing nothing but a smirk of my own. But I realized my lesson in Monique's club: nothing good can come of having sex with Eric Sinclair. And as for the gentleman in question, he's been... well, a perfect gentleman. Dammit.

He and Tina brought the Book of the Dead to the house, where we keep it in the library on its own little mahogany book stand. Jessica tried to read it and got a three day migraine for her pains. She also jumped at small noises and wouldn't eat for most of those three days. Now she stays the hell away from the library.

I'll get to the book myself someday, but for now I'm trying lighter fare. Let Tina and Sinclair manage the thing, if they could.

When I rose a few nights ago, there was a copy of Pat Conroy's biography, My Losing Season, on my chest. It took me a week to read it and the best part was, there was no mention of food anywhere. So I put it on the shelf with my other books. Guess a door I thought was closed had swung open again... I was sure glad.

I tried to thank Sinclair (I knew Jess hadn't done it; she'd have made sure she got the credit... but I bet she gave him the idea), but he gave me a look like he didn't know what I was talking about, so I dropped it.

Jon left town. He said he wanted to get back to the suburbs to see his family, but I think, and Jessica concurs, he couldn't stand the thought of Sinclair living with me. Which made two of us, frankly. He promised to come back at the end of the summer, and I actually find myself missing the little weirdo.

Ani hangs around most evenings. I think she and Tina have something going, but they're discreet. Still, they're both doing a lot of wandering around the mansion, humming. And the goofy smiles are annoying.

Sinclair was right: Monique's stuff came to me. It was true. She really did have several properties all over the world. And two cars!

What the hell I was going to do with a club in Minneapolis, a spa in Switzerland, a private school in England, and a restaurant in France remains beyond me. I don't know a damn thing about managing multiple businesses. I guess I could go get a job at one of them. Maybe I'd try to run Scratch...

Detective Nick Berry's peripheral involvement in the whole nasty business was that rarest of things. A true coincidence. The cabbie I'd saved had just happened to give his report to Nick. Nick had just happened to see my car a few days later and pulled me over. I was glad. I'd messed up his life once before; I would have hated to find it a ruin again.

Mr. Mason disappeared. I didn't even know about it until I saw the blurb in the paper. He had no family, and his own boss was the one who finally reported him missing; how's that for sad?

Gone without a trace, until they found a few pieces of him in his apartment a month later. Inside a suitcase, which he'd apparently been in the middle of packing when... when whatever happened, happened. I asked Sinclair about it, and he just turned the page of the Journal and didn't answer me. So I didn't bring it up again. Felt a little sorry for Mr. Mason, though. After all, he did give me a job at Macy's.

Went to see the Ant, with a Calvin Klein onesie for my future half-sibling. Sort of a "can't we pretend we don't hate each other?" ice breaker. She "accidentally" spilled red wine on it.

I'm worried about the gardener. Nobody else talks about him, and when I describe him I get a lot of funny looks. Jessica says she did hire someone to take care of the lawn and flowerbeds, but it was a young woman in her twenties. This guy's old, really old.

I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who can see him.

I'm scared to go talk to him, but one of these days I plan to get it over with. Whatever his deal is, hopefully I can help, and he'll vamoose like Marie did. I miss her, but creepy old guy ghosts staring up at my bedroom window whenever I look out I do not need.

I did a lot of thinking about what happened that night in Monique's bar. The whole day-week!-had a fairly nightmarish quality and sometimes it's hard to remember all the gory details. Whenever I try, my mind veers off to sweater sales and leather gloves. All the winter stuff is in the stores now, and I need to stock up.

Jessica asked me about it, and Tina did, too, but Sinclair avoided the subject entirely, and I wasn't sure why. I told them the truth-I didn't remember much between getting staked, and Marc pulling the stake out.

What I didn't tell them was the one thing I did remember: Sinclair's voice floating out of the dark, coaxing, commanding, and saying the same thing over and over again: "Come back. Come back. Don't leave me. Come back."

Weird. And sometimes I wonder if I dreamed it. Or hallucinated it. Or, most amazing of all, if he really said it. God knows I wasn't going to ask him... I was still building up my courage to talk to the dead gardener.

So, either I can't be killed, or the king of the undead brought me back by the sheer force of his will. Either way, something to think about.

But not today. Neiman's is having a sale, and I desperately need a cashmere cardigan. I'd prefer red, but I'll take any primary color. Jessica's paying! She says it's a "congrats on coming back from the dead again" present. Works for me.