Undead and Unworthy

Chapter 12

“Who's here?” I asked, yawning as I strolled into the kitchen. Sinclair, once done laughing, had been in a rush to get back to the manse, for which I could not blame him. He'd snuck into the library to read the Book of the Dead, and I'd come to the kitchen to pretend I didn't know, and also for a smoothie.

“Here, what? Here here?” Marc was yawning, too, and scratching his ribs; he smelled like cotton balls, antiseptic, and was wearing last night's scrubs. His hair, shaved nearly bald when I met him, was now shoulder length, dark, and fell into his eyes a lot. It was a wonder how he examined anyone at the hospital. “I hate your creepy vampire superpowers.”

“Liar.”

“It's Nick,” Jessica announced, shutting the fridge and turning around, a pomegranate (a pomegranate! She ate 'em like oranges, I swear to God) in her left hand.

“Oh.”

I'd probably better leave. I had recently discovered that Detective Nick Berry, who was in love with my best friend, hated me. And not “hate” like “I hate boogers.” Hated me like plague. Hated me like famine. The fact that I deserved it didn't make things any easier. “You guys have a date?”

“No,” she said cryptically, which made me want to strangle her. When Jess didn't want to cough up, you could stick a gun in her ear, and she'd laugh at you. Must be from growing up rich. Sinclair was the same way. Stick a gun in my ear, and I'd talk until your pants fell down.

Then: “How's your grandpa?”

“Still worried that your blackness will infect me.”

“That's the plan. First you, then all the other blondes, and then on to brunettes and redheads. Once we have the womenfolk, all the babies will come out black, too. We all voted on the plan at the last Black Conspirators meeting.” Ignoring Marc's choking, she added, “Bet Sinclair had a good laugh.”

“To put it mildly. He was all soft and nostalgic at first, talking about how it was nice to have live in-​laws, but my grandpa wiped the smile off his face soon enough. But never mind that. What's Nick doing here?”

“Meh,” the Cryptic One replied.

“He's a carpenter by night? Not that we need one anymore; that gang you hired did a pretty good job.” And they did. Except for the smell of sawned wood and fresh paint, you'd think nothing had happened.

“Yeah, thanks, Jessica. What do we owe you?” Now that I was married to a rich guy, I could say something like that and not have Jessica burst into derisive laughter. But as usual she just waved a hand: don't worry about it. I was so used to her money I hardly noticed it was there. Shit, she hardly knew it was there. But she was never obnoxious about it, seeing it as something permanent and unchangeable, like her skin color and taste in music.

“So,” I continued, “not to go on and on about something – ”

“You?” Marc asked.

“Never,” Jessica declared.

I scowled at them both. “What is Nick doing here?”

“What do you care?” Marc asked, plucking an apple out of the basket on the counter and taking a wet bite. “He'd rather see you dead than in last year's Blahniks.”

I shuddered and wiped masticated apple off my cheek. “That was mean. Even for you.”

“Obviously,” Marc continued, shaking his hair out of his eyes (and into Jessica's pomegranate), “he and the richest woman in the state – ”

“Richest person,” Jessica corrected gently.

“ – have a hot sloppy date. FYI, girlfriend, you're aware he's using you for your money, right?”

“His grandpa was one of the Deeres.”

We gaped at her. This was a tidbit we hadn't heard before.

“Shut... up!” Marc nearly screamed.

“Nuh-​uh.” Jessica popped another pomegranate seed into her mouth and tried not to look smug. She sucked at it, as usual.

“As in the John Deere tractor company?” I advanced cautiously. (As in, anyone who wanted a tractor, trailer, thresher, or combine usually bought 'em from the John Deere Company.)

“Yup. He's got money falling out of his butt.”

“Yum,” Marc said absently.

I tried to speak for a couple of seconds and finally choked out, “Why didn't you tell us?”

“Why would I? What difference does it make if he's got a seven figure trust fund?”

“Well, it certainly makes him a more attractive man,” Marc blurted before he could stop himself. “Also, money makes a guy's dick huge.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she said congenially enough.

“If only I could,” he mourned. “It'd be the only way I'd get any, that's for sure.”

The thing is, as exasperated as Marc and I were to be the last ones in on this incredibly juicy gossip (me more than him, probably, I mean, we were best friends), Jessica really meant what she said. She wouldn't know what difference it made, and wouldn't care.

It occurred to me that Sinclair had probably found this out ages ago and had also neglected to tell me. Must be a rich guy thing. Excuse me. Rich person. Not to mention, definitely the week for me to find out shit I should already have known.

“I'll get the door,” I said gloomily, because I knew neither of them could hear Nick coming up the walk, and also because I decided the quickest way to find out why he was here was to let him in. As I started to leave the kitchen I nearly ran into my husband.

“I'm getting the door,” I explained, trying to sidestep him.

He resisted, which made it like trying to sidestep a barn. “I'll accompany you.”

I stared up at him. He must have died clean shaven. At least, I never saw him shaving, and there weren't any shaving – what was the word? accoutrements? – in his bathroom. God, he was gorgeous. Gorgeous and distant, like the sunrise he could never see. There were times I looked into that perfect, impassive face and wondered what he was thinking. Sometimes I was truly mystified: Out of all the vampires in all the world, why'd he want me?

We were still sidestepping each other in the hallway. “Why d'you want to come with me?”

“I'm unable to be outside of the goddess-​like presence that is you?”

I heard Marc making vomiting noises as the kitchen door swung shut behind us. “No, seriously.” Except with Sinclair, I never knew when he was serious.

“I miss you, and I want to be with you?”

“Come on.”

“I am coming,” he said, falling into step behind me.

“Yeah, this stopped being cute about five seconds ago.”

“If only,” my husband sighed.

“Sinclair, what the hell is up?”

“You have a meeting with Detective Berry, who has in the past threatened you with a firearm, and thus I will be in attendance as well. That is all.”

“That is all?”

“Oh. Also, if he points a firearm anywhere near you, I shall pull off his arms and stuff them down his throat.”

He said that just as I was swinging the front door open. “You will not! Jessica will be impossible to live with! (More impossible.)” Then: “Wait a damned minute! You knew about Nick coming to see me before I did, even if he tried to kill me?”

“Of course.”

“You prick.”

Nick, all annoying blond good looks and broad shoulders, smirked at us. For the first time, I noticed he dressed pretty damned well on a cop's salary. That was an Armani hanging off his swimmer's shoulders, if I wasn't mistaken.

“Did I come at a bad time?” he asked, grinning, and it took all I had not to slam the door in his stupid, rich, cop face.