Undead and Unreturnable
"Look, you don't even have to go to the florist, okay? I've got a book full of pictures for you to look at."
"Darling, I trust your taste impeccably. I'm sure whatever you choose will be appropriate to the... lovely occasion."
"You're lying! You think I keep my taste in my butt!"
"I am certain," Sinclair said, totally straight-faced, "that I never used that phrase."
Tina, who had been coming into the kitchen to get God-knows-what, abruptly turned around.
"Freeze!" I shouted. "I've got a bone to pick with you, too."
"How can I serve you, my queen?" she asked, all innocent. When she wanted, she could look like a sixteen-year-old kid.
"How about not hacking into my friend's computers and helping Sinclair eat three hundred pages? How about that?"
Tina looked over at Sinclair, who had suddenly rediscovered that the Wall Street Journal printed stock prices. No help there.
"Look, I know you're the king's man-er, so to speak-and you feel like you can't say no to him, but-"
"It's not that."
"What?"
"Not entirely that," she amended. "If I may be frank, Majesty, I don't think his little school project was at all appropriate. You do have enemies, you know."
"Tell me about it." I glared at the two of them, the undead Frick and Frack.
"I mean human enemies. Why make things easier for them? There is a difference between dishonesty and discretion."
Oh, like either of those two would know. "Look, just leave my friend's stuff alone, okay? I've already talked to Sinclair about this, and he's going to undo the 'you are getting verrrrrrry sleeeeeepy' thing."
"He is?"
"I am," Sinclair said to the paper.
"Love," Tina said, gaping. "It's truly an amazing thing to behold."
"Shush, Tina."
"My king." Fighting a smile, she grabbed the mail and walked out.
"As for you. You don't even have to pick the flowers you like, okay? Just pick the ones you absolutely loathe, can't stand the sight of, and I'll be sure those aren't anywhere near you on the big day."
"Darling," he said, turning the page, "I just don't have intensely strong feelings for flowers."
"But you were raised on a farm! You must have some preferences."
"Darling, I have a penis. Ergo I have no preferences."
"When are you and your penis going to get with the program?" Jessica asked, coming in the door Tina had just left by. "Just do what she asks, and it'll all be over that much sooner. For everybody."
"Way to make it sound fun, Jess."
"It's not fun, Bets. Not for anyone but you." She pulled up a chair and sat down. Eric was looking at her with some interest.
"At last," he said. "Someone says it out loud."
"Eric, she's been planning this wedding since she was in the seventh grade. Honest to God. She used to bring Brides magazine to study hall, and she'd show me the dress, the tux, the cake, the flowers. She even had the name of your kids picked out. She still does that."
"Hey, hey," I protested. "I haven't looked at an issue of Brides in years. A year. Six months. Look, let's get back on track, all right? Sinclair? You look okay? You're kind of pale, even for you."
Oh. My. God. I actually had managed to put that huge problem out of my mind. It was easy, what with the ghosts and cops and serial killers on my radar. But now, it was baaaaaack, looming in my head like a big dead flower. For a second I was totally horrified. Then I recovered. "No, I won't. I'm keeping my name."
"No, you are not."
"Like hell!"
"Uh-oh," Jessica muttered.
"If I have to go through this farcical event, the very damned least you can do is be Mrs. Elizabeth Sinclair."
"What does farcical mean?" I asked suspiciously.
"Happy," Jessica said.
"Oh. Okay. Look, Sinclair, I realize, being a million years old, that you can't help being an ancient disgusting chauvinist pig. But you're just gonna have to get over it in this case, because this is the twenty-first century, in case you haven't noticed, and women don't have to submerge their identities with their husband's."
"The entire point of getting married," Sinclair began, "is to-" He cut himself off and tilted his head to the left. Jessica turned and looked, too. I couldn't understand what the fuss was about; it was Laura. She was, despite recent events, welcome in our home anytime.
She eased the kitchen doors open and stepped in. "Helloooo? May I come in?"
Jessica was staring. "What are you doing here?"
Then I realized. It was Saturday night. Laura always went to Mass on Saturday nights. Said it kept her out of trouble, plus she could sleep late the next day.
She shrugged and pulled up a chair. "Oh, you know. I just-didn't feel like going tonight."
I was trying not to stare, and failing. "For the first time ever. Your folks are gonna kill me! They're gonna think I'm a bad influence."
"You are," Jessica said.
"It's no big deal, everyone. Maybe I'll go tomorrow."
"Forgive us for staring," Sinclair said. "It's just that you are so... devout. It was a surprise, seeing you here when you are usually... elsewhere."
"It's no big deal," she said again, and everyone heard the warning that time.
Luckily (?), George the Fiend chose that moment to also walk into the kitchen. I guess we were having a party and nobody told me.
"Now what's he doing up here?" Jessica asked. "To think, I almost didn't come in here for a glass of milk. Look at all the stuff I would have missed."
"I dunno," I said, staring. George was dragging half the blanket he'd crocheted, hopped up on a kitchen stool, drank all my tea-the first time he'd evinced evidence in anything but blood-spat it out on the floor in disgust, and started crocheting again.
Laura cleared her throat. "I, ah, want to take this chance, Mr. George, to apologize for-for what I did the other night. I was picking a fight because I was angry at someone else, and that's a poor excuse. In fact, it's no excuse. So again, I apologize. I'm very, very sorry. And I'm sorry to you, too, Betsy, and you, Eric, for laying hands on one of your subjects."
I shrugged it off with a mumbled "Well, what are ya gonna do?" but Sinclair, doubtless used to this sort of thing, waved it off with a kingly, "Think no more of it, Laura, dear. We know your actions are normally above reproach."
Yeah. Normally.
"He seemed better after I fed him," Laura suggested.
I restrained the impulse to slap my forehead. Of course he was better, duh! He got better after drinking my blood-queen's blood. How much good would the devil's bloodline do him? He could probably do my taxes by now.
"That's the stuff I got him last week," Jessica said, staring at the lavender blanket, which was almost as big as my bed. "He must be just about out. I'll run over to the fabric store and get him some more."
"Red, please," George the Fiend said.
Pandemonium. Chaos. And no matter what we tempted him with, how much we cajoled, how often Sinclair ordered, or how often I begged, he didn't say another word.