TWENTY
And just like that, my reverie was over—finally—and I was back in the present in the Peach Parlor. (Hmm, alliteration.) Unfortunately, that meant I now had to talk to this poor bastard. “Hi, Mr. Tinsman. How—” I stopped. I knew exactly how he’d been. Numb and miserable.
“Everything’s fine, Ronald,” Laura assured him, completely oblivious to the fact that she was (a) using him, and (b) adding to his pain in the long run. Hey, vampires were being punished, so it’s all good, right? “I was just leaving.”
“No, we were just kicking you out.” She didn’t get to take the credit for her departure. It was our idea!
“I’m going,” she snapped, “and I won’t be back.”
“You’re leaving, and you won’t be allowed back!” Again: the credit was rightfully ours.
“Is he here?”
I stopped my side of the death glower to look over at him. “Who, Mr. Tinsman?”
“The vampire who murdered my daughter.”
Annnnd just like that, I ceased caring about who got the credit. “Mr. Tinsman, he—”
“You protect him, right? It’s your job? As queen.” Tinsman was looking around with a vacant expression, as though Lawrence was behind the peach curtains, or the peach sofa. “He’s under your protection. They all are.”
Oh. So that’s how it was. I’m helping your sister expose you so vampires will have nowhere to hide. Had to give it to him, it was clever. His motives were understandable, and no one with a conscience could doubt his sincerity. As a recovering Miss Congeniality, it was my fate to hope for the regard and affection of people who loathed me.
I turned so I was facing him. Everyone else was sort of frozen in place, caught in the act of leaving. Marc and Tina were probably off to the monitor room, Sinclair wanted to whip up a new batch of Bacon Cookies for Fur and Burr, and I’d love to get back to reading Smoothie Nation (chapter six: “Melon Mania!”). Laura? Who knew? Probably leafletting our bedroom with “Repent, for the End Is Nigh, You Whorish Moron” brochures.
But none of those things were happening. Instead we were all prisoners of the Peach Parlor, trapped by Ronald Tinsman’s grief.
“Mr. Tinsman, I’m the vampire who killed your daughter,” I said. Never had I been more tempted to use my vampire mojo on someone. Not to get myself out of this mess. To make him forget about his pain.
We cannot, beloved.
I know, I know. Can’t help wishing for it. Vamp mojo, I had learned over the years, was a short-term solution at best, and often backfired. Or worse, you pushed a little too hard, and you drove someone insane. How do you make a man forget he’s mourning his entire family without doing serious brain damage?
You leave him the hell alone. Because some things can’t be screwed with, a lesson I wish my sister would just internalize already.
“Not Lawrence. In fact,” I continued, “Lawrence refused to turn your daughter when she asked. Which, I’m sorry to say, drove her to desperate measures.”
“So it was his fault.” His tonelessness was as sad as it was creepy. He was like a mannequin who had learned to walk and talk and nothing else: no expressions, no humanity. “His inaction drove her to seek her killer.”
Well, hell, anything sounded bad when you said it like that. “No, it’s still my fault. But listen . . .” To what? What could I possibly say to this poor guy? There were only two ways I could think of to comfort a grieving parent: tales of vengeance, or assurance that their child was out of harm’s way. Yes! “You don’t have to worry about her. Cindy’s totally—”
Elizabeth, don’t!
“—fine where she is.”
I caught on half a second too late. I didn’t dare look at Sinclair. At any of them.
Tinsman blinked slowly, like an owl. I could actually see him processing. “She’s totally what? What did you say?”
“Shit,” Marc said under his breath.
“Agreed,” Tina said under hers.
“Totally, um, doing well. In Hell. Where I recently saw her.” How do I get myself into these messes? Pure natural talent: I don’t even have to practice.
“She’s in Hell?” he whispered, and I’d never heard so much anguish crammed into three words. This was—and I didn’t think such a thing was possible—worse than the mannequin.
Okay, salvage it. Somehow. My big, flapping, unhinged, loose-lipped, babbling mouth got me into this; time for it to get me out.
“Yeah, she is, but it’s not like it sounds. She’s got a buddy—we have a system down there now. Not down there because it’s not under us. She’s even helped her friend get paroled. And she’s—” Making friends, I’d been about to say. Lawrence is sticking by her and looking out for her. She’s not alone, she’s with someone she loves, and she’s not being tortured. And she did so great with Jennifer, I’m going to give her more responsibility. Except maybe the thought of her spending eternity with Lawrence, and doing chores for the vampire queen, wouldn’t make Tinsman feel better.
He gulped so hard we heard it. “My daughter went to Hell?”
Marc was making slashing motions across his throat. Tina had simply closed her eyes and was enduring. But I was in it now. Nothing to do but finish.
“The thing is—”
“My daughter went to Hell,” he said again, and for some reason hearing it the second time was worse.
“Yes, but Hell’s a lot like L.A. You only hear awful things about it, and when you get there, parts of it are awful, but some parts are pretty okay. Nice, even.”
“You sent. My daughter. To Hell.”
“No! That’s just—”
Elizabeth, for the love of God. Just stop.
“—where she ended up,” I finished, and it would be so great if this was a nightmare. A nightmare would be good. Let me look down and realize I’m naked and haven’t studied for the history test.
I looked down. Fully clothed. Nuts.
“C’mon, Ronald.” Laura was back from wherever and now she sort of steered Tinsman toward our front door. “Let’s go. You’ve done your part, and they’ll all pay for what they’ve done.”
Well, at least she doesn’t sound like a Bond villain knockoff.
“And you, Laura?” Sinclair asked gently. “When will you pay for your sins?”
She snorted, gave Tinsman a gentle shove out the front door, and said, “You almost sound like you know what you’re talking about. By the way, I let your puppies out of the mudroom. Hope they haven’t gotten into any mischief.”
Ack! Fur and Burr, unsupervised, having the run of the mansion while we were all stuck in the Peach Parlor with Ronald Tinsman as he tried to process the fact that his daughter was in Hell! Did I leave my bedroom door open? Was my closet door open?
I ran, and behind me I could hear Marc bellowing, “And stay out, you passive-aggressive cow!”
My sentiments exactly.