Undead and Unwelcome (Undead #8)

Undead and Unwelcome (Undead #8) Page 11

Chapter 24

Dude,

It wasn't long before Laura had a chance to implement Operation Distract. Yes, another band of devil worshippers showed up. But this time she (we, actually) was ready for them.

"Oh most gracious and dread lady," their leader was proclaiming, kneeling before her. His fellow lemmings followed suit, which meant there were sixteen religious extremists in one of our parlors. "We but live to serve you in any capacity you require. Only point us to your enemies and we shall wreak vengeance in your name. In your father's name, Lucifer Morningstar."

That was kind of interesting, because we knew Laura's mother had been possessed by the devil. And the devil always appeared to Laura (you can imagine her mood after one of those fun-filled visits) as a woman.

I imagine the Prince/Princess of Lies can appear as anything he/she wants.

"We are yours to command!" he shouted at Laura's feet, since they were all cowering before her on their knees. None of them could see the way she shook her head in disgust, rolling her eyes. "Oh most dread sovereign, your coming was foretold and it has come at last!"

"Yes, yes," she replied impatiently. "That's fine. Now. You. All of you."

All the heads jerked up at once. It was like watching otters pop their heads out of the water at the zoo.

"I bid ye go forth. All of you find the soup kitchen on Lake and Fourth, in Minneapolis. Volunteer for at least fifty hours a week."

The leader's sad basset hound face seemed to sag even further. "But-but we wish to-"

"Are you questioning me?" Laura thundered in a pretty good imitation of an angry demigod wearing a pink sweater. "You dare question how I test your loyalty?"

Practically elbowing each other out of the way, they all denied questioning anything.

"So begone from here, and do my unholy bidding at Sister Sue's Soup Kitchen. I will know when you are ready."

They all galloped out, several of them getting wedged in the doorway in their eagerness to obey Laura's completely unevil command.

They were no sooner out the front door than Laura threw herself into my arms hard enough to rock me back on my heels. "It worked! Oh, Marc, I can't thank you enough, what a wonderful idea you had!"

"Fifty hours a week should keep them out of trouble," I agreed, patting her back.

"Oh, I don't know why I didn't think of this before!"

Well, honey, you pretty much tense up and close off whenever anything connecting you with your mother gets shoved in your face. When you're that angry, or that upset, or that sad, it's impossible to think logically.

(Dude, I prudently kept that to myself.)

"I don't know how I kept a straight face," Laura gasped. "I looked at you and I almost lost it right in front of that band of dimwitted sheep."

In all modesty, I had to admit my idea stank with the reek of genius. Put them to work for you, I'd said. Make them volunteer at homeless shelters, at soup kitchens, at church fund-raisers. That way they're happy-they think they're being tested-and you're happy because not only are they out of your hair, they're spending virtually all their free time helping the greater good.

I'd saved the best for last: ordering devil worshippers to commit good deeds was a terrific way to defy her mother. If I had needed a deal closer, that was it.

"Marc, if there's ever anything I can do for you, you have to come see me or call."

"Are you kidding? You just gave me ten minutes of free entertainment. You're square with the house, honey."

Laura turned away for a moment, suddenly lost in thought. "Maybe I've been looking at this the wrong way. If they'll do anything I say-if they'll do things for me they would do for no one else-I wonder what else I can make them do?"

"Hey, one way to find out," I said, having absolutely no idea that I was inadvertently, and with the best of intentions, driving Laura to a break with her conscience and her sanity.

I take full responsibility for the following events, which I will narrate as quickly and carefully as I can.

Chapter 25

Derik! Apologize this minute," Sara practically hissed. "I know you're upset, but this is ridiculous. He's just a baby."

"I don't know what the hell that thing is," Derik retorted, "but it's not a baby."

"You're acting like you've seen a ghoul, or something," Jeannie said.

"What baby?"

Jeannie turned to her husband. "What baby? The one she got off the plane with, what are you talking about, what baby?"

Oh, great, here were Michael and Jeannie Wyndham, with Sinclair hot on their heels.

"Everybody just calm down," I began, but Derik drowned me out.

He pointed. "That baby."

Michael frowned. "But you don't have a baby."

Jeannie stared. "What's wrong with you?" She nodded toward Derik. "Him, I get. He's just playing the blame game. But you-"

I was flabbergasted. I'd suspected last night he hadn't noticed BabyJon, but not noticing or commenting was one thing. Michael didn't appear to see my brother at all.

"Well, he's not mine," I said, trying to recover from my surprise. "I mean, he is now. He's my brother."

Michael was staring at BabyJon with his flat, yellow gaze. "Where did he come from?"

"Uh, Michael." I coughed. "Um, he came with us. On the plane, like Jeannie said. He was in the limo with us last night. And in your office."

"Oh, well, that's fine then."

"I wouldn't call that exactly fine," Jeannie began, but Michael had already turned away, gently touching Jeannie's elbow.

"Hon, would you tell the kitchen they need to send up more-"

"Wait."

Sinclair might not have been a Pack member, but he had no trouble seizing control of a moment . . . Everybody stopped and looked at him.

"Michael," Sinclair asked quietly, almost gently, "where is the baby?"

Michael frowned and cocked his head, as if listening to a voice from another room. "What baby?"

"That's it," Jeannie said firmly. "I'm taking you to a doctor. Right now."

"I'm not sure it's something a doctor can fix," I said, mentally reeling. I mean, I really needed a minute here.

As soon as Michael had turned his back, he'd forgotten-again-about BabyJon. Derik wouldn't go anywhere near the kid. And the other werewolves seemed to be picking up on Derik's extreme stress. Only Sara seemed unperturbed.

"Perhaps it's time to go," Sinclair murmured, his fingers clutching the back of my chair.

Perhaps it was time to call the local mental hospital with some new admits. "Uh, okay," I said, slowly getting to my feet. BabyJon, unmoved by recent events, yawned against my neck. "Well, thanks for the-uh-snacks. I guess we'll-"

"We're not going to actually let them get away with this, are we?" A petite, dark-haired woman with a severe buzz cut was standing on the fringe of our small group. She was dressed in black jeans and a black button-down shirt, and it took me a minute to place her.

It was Cain-one of the werewolves who'd come to the mansion looking for Antonia earlier in the week.

"She gets Antonia killed, then brings some sort of ensorcelled infant-if that's what it really is-and we're just going to let her walk?"

"Cain."

"Well, are we?" she cried, turning to face the man who towered over her. He, too, was dark and whip-thin. He, too, looked weirded out but, even more than that, he seemed almost embarrassed. For her or for me, I had no idea. But I wasn't going to bet the farm it was me.

"That's for the Council to decide," the quiet, dark-haired man said. "Not us. And not here."

"But she got Antonia killed! And she doesn't even seem to care!"

And that was just about enough. "I didn't get Antonia killed," I said, and I could practically feel ears pricking up all over the room. "You did."

Sinclair pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

"And then she-what?" Cain's jaw sagged and she turned to fully face me. "What did you say to me?"

"What's wrong? Should I get a megaphone? Do you not understand English?" Smiling, I beckoned her closer and, when she bent to hear, I said loudly, "I didn't get Antonia killed. You did."

Cain jerked away and rubbed her ear. A few more werewolves sidled over. Sinclair was still shaking his head and looking like the before picture of a sinus headache commercial.

"I am so sick of this bullshit," I said, knowing my voice was carrying, knowing everyone in the room could hear me, and not much caring. "I guess it hasn't occurred to any of you to ask yourselves what the hell Antonia was doing living with vampires in the first place. Oh, hell no! After all, it's much more convenient to blame us than face the fact that she couldn't get out of here fast enough."

"And now," Sinclair sighed, "we fight."

"Here," I said, thrusting BabyJon toward Sara, who scooped him up and backed off a couple of steps. BabyJon let out a pissed-off yowl, ignoring Sara's attempts to soothe him.

"You can't pass the buck that easily," Cain retorted. "You were the leader; she was your responsibility."

"She was a grown woman, you nitwit! You're making it sound like she was my kindergarten student."

"You're still passing the buck," someone else said, a werewolf I hadn't met.

"And you're all conveniently overlooking the fact that not only did you practically drive her to my front door, I didn't see any of you assholes ever come to visit."

"She was her own person," that same werewolf said.

"Well, which is it, dipshit? Either she was a grown woman who could take care of herself, or she needed me to shelter and protect her. You can't have it both ways."

"We're getting a bit far afield," Sinclair began, but I bulldozed right over him.

"She didn't get a single phone call the entire time she lived with us. The only time anyone bothered to show up was after she missed her weekly military check-in, whatever it was. When your info pipeline into the vampires suddenly got cut off, then you showed up."

A furious gabble of voices rose, and rose, and I had to shout to be heard over the din. "Not to mention, not to mention, you guys clearly didn't want much to do with her while she was alive. So all this postmortem concern is a pile of crap. You guys look stupid trying to come off all morally outraged when it was your fault she was living in my house in the first place."

The babble of voices got louder, but I was able to pick out one comment from the din: "The bottom line is that she died in your service, so it's your responsibility."

"If they're even telling the truth about how she died," someone else said. "How can we ever know? She and her mate don't have a scent. They can make up any story they like and we'd never know the difference."

"Oh, really? Okay. Here's a story, fuck-o. Once upon a time, there was a werewolf who could predict the future who lived on Cape Cod. And all her supposed friends and family went out of their way to avoid her because she wasn't exactly Miss Congeniality." I ought to know; I used to be one. "And one day she moved away and never came back, and nobody in her Pack gave a rat's ass. The end."

More babbling. The din rose and rose. Shouts. Threats. Michael trying to get everyone to calm down. Sinclair rubbing the bridge of his nose. Sara looking like an increasingly nervous tennis match observer. BabyJon crying.

It was stupid, really. Stupid to forget how fast they were. Stupid to pick a fight in a room full of werewolves. I heard the crash of a chair splintering, and turned just in time to get stabbed in the heart with a chair leg.

That was pretty much when the lights went out.