FOUR
THE PRESENT
Tina cleared her throat. “So. About that PR firm . . . ?”
“What? It was fine.” They were all staring at me. “What? It was! I mean, I felt a little on the spot with the werewolf question—”
“You looked like a deer about to be mowed by a semi,” Marc pointed out. “Two semis. The first would’ve creamed you; the second would have made sure you stayed down.”
“Oh, please, exaggerate a little more.” I scoffed and, when that seemed to have no effect, scoffed harder. “Besides, I couldn’t out werewolves without their permission. Like I need the Wyndham pack breathing down my neck—literally breathing down my neck and probably drooling on me—along with everything else going on this month?”
Sinclair actually shuddered. “No, you do not. But I’m afraid this interview has done nothing but raise more questions.” Infinitesimal pause. “As I warned you it might.”
“And here we go with the ‘I Told You So’ dance. Well, too bad. You guys are the ones who said I shouldn’t guzzle holy water on camera. You’re the ones who said I wasn’t a circus performer.”
“No,” Marc agreed, “your outfit was all wrong for that.”
I shot him an exasperated look. “Look, Laura made her little video, I went on TV to refute, end of story.”
“No one is saying that you did a bad job,” Tina began in that “treat the idiot with kid gloves” tone I hated. “But—”
“By denying we’re a nation, you just opened up the chance for any vampire to be arrested, charged, and tried in a court of law . . . not by our laws,” Sinclair said.
“Which is . . . bad?”
Vigorous nods.
Sinclair went on. “Every vampire who sees this will now wonder if you have not simply exposed them, but they will wonder if you made a deliberate decision to leave them without protection, either.”
“Which is super-duper bad.”
“Yes. Further, by mentioning vampire politics, you have raised the question among our people: Why aren’t we more political? Why do you and I rule? Perhaps we should embrace politics and hold elections.”
“Oh.” Huh. Okay. Hadn’t thought of it like that. What surprised me most was that my first impulse wasn’t: You want the job? You can have it. Best of luck. No, it was: I’m not the queen by popular demand. I’m the queen because I’m the queen. “Okay, well, this is how we figure out what else we have to do.” I refused to see this as a fuckup. “The whole point is that it’s time, right? Well, nobody ever promised it’d be drama-free. Or that it’d be easy.” Though I’d been hoping. “I still think you guys are making something out of nothing. I’m telling you, it’ll be fine.”
Suddenly everyone’s phones shorted out at the same time. No, wait, they all started ringing and trembling at the same time. A cacophony of ringtones filled the air, startling everyone in the room. For the first time I wasn’t amused by Marc’s Darth Vader ringtone, or the Pink Panther theme, which sounded so weird coming from Tina’s phone. Sinclair used the old-fashioned bell ring—no, wait, that was the kitchen phone ringing, the one hooked into the landline. (Yeah, we still had one of those.) Sinclair had his set so only dogs and vampires could hear it.
I cut off my own ringtone
(“Piiiiiiiigs . . . iiiiiiin . . . spaaaaaaaace!”)
when I answered and was greeted with, “Oh, you silly bitch. What have you done now?”
“Antonia,” I groaned. There were two women named Antonia in my life and they were both pains in my ass. One was my dead stepmother, who helped me run Hell. The other was the bitch (literally—Antonia was a werewolf) on the other end of the line. She’d lived with us in the mansion for a few months until she fell in love with a feral vampire and they both moved west. (I know how it sounds. These are the days of our lives.)*
“Did no one prep you, you shoe-obsessed moron?”
This was Antonia-ese for I’m a little worried about you.
“It was a ten-minute local interview,” I whined. “It went fine.”
“I didn’t know it was possible for someone to have their head that far up their ass.” As your friend, I’m concerned you haven’t thought through all the ramifications.
“You don’t call me for six months and when you do pick up the phone, it’s to yell at me?”
“God knows the cringing sycophants you live with won’t do it.” With respect, the others lack my objectivity.
“Always so nice to hear from you, Antonia.”
A rude noise, like she farted into her cell phone. I wouldn’t put anything past that bitch. “Look, when the gang gets to town, call me. I might be able to save your dumb ass from the well-deserved smackdown coming your way.” I’d like to help you but it’s not in my nature to just show up—I’d like an invitation so I don’t feel I’m imposing on our friendship.
“The others? What others? Wait, are you telling me the— Dammit!” Antonia hanging up was like anybody hanging up: conversation over.
My phone promptly rang again
(“Piiiiiiiigs . . . iiiiiiiiin . . . spaaaaaaaace!”)
and I glared at it hard enough to shatter the case. This time, luckily, it was my mother. “That was, um . . . you looked very nice.”
I sighed. “Apparently it was the worst television interview in the history of the medium and I was a fool to contemplate it much less go through with it.”
“Oh no, it wasn’t that bad.”
“Thanks, but you’re biased.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m lying, honey. Nixon looked much worse than you did when he debated Kennedy.”
Sigh. “Thanks, Mom.”
“The reason I called . . . was . . . ah . . .” Hmm. Hesitancy was not a trait she was known for. This was a woman who all but kidnapped Tina so she could pump her about the Civil War. She practically chained her up in the basement. This was a woman who, if she thought my new $450 Manolos were ugly, would say so. Fearless! So whatever she was about to say was nothing I wanted to hear. “I know we talked about bringing BabyJon back to the mansion tomorrow . . .”
I closed my eyes, because I immediately saw the problem. My brother/son, BabyJon,* ostensibly lived in the mansion with the rest of us. And we adored the incontinent drool machine. Except he was spending more and more time with my mother these days. What started out as a temporary arrangement in times of emergency
(“I’m going to Hell. Not sure when I’ll return; it depends on whether or not the devil kills me. I’ll try to bring you back something nice, though!”)
was becoming permanent. And my mom had gone from resenting her ex-husband’s late-in-life baby to absolute adoration. Which was wonderful, except it meant that these days, BabyJon was more a visitor than a resident of the mansion. But it had to be done, for the same reason Jessica and her weird babies had to move out. You couldn’t dick around with the safety of innocents. You just couldn’t. It was decidedly uncool.
He was starting to walk, and he’d already cut his first few teeth. And I was missing all of it . . . the first tooth, first solid foods, first talking back, first scribbling on the wall, first stealing my car, first time getting drunk and throwing up in the kitchen sink . . . all the stuff I’d looked forward to as a mom/big sister hybrid.
“Betsy? You there, hon?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m here, Mom. You’d better keep him for a few more days. I think the deluge is going to get worse before it gets better. I’ll come see you both tomorrow.”
“All right, hon.” Her relief was unmistakable. “I think that’s the best option for now.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” A generous lie. “Take it easy, sweetie—this too shall et cetera.”
Sure it would.
(“Piiiiiiiigs . . . iiiiiiiiin . . . spaaaaaaaace!”)
Nope. I angrily stuffed my phone down between couch cushions. My phone was dead to me. And so was Diana Pierce. Well, no. Just my phone. How could I stay mad at Diana Pierce when she knew how to sit down without strangling on her microphone cord?
“I’ll be hiding in my bedroom if anyone needs me,” I announced.
“Aw, c’mon. Don’t do that. Let’s adieu to the kitchen. This is nothing a blender of smoothies can’t fix,” Marc cajoled. “Or at least distract us from.”
I shook my head. “I’m not thirsty.” And perhaps would never be again. Who knew when I’d get my appetite back? Smoothie Nation, I have failed you.