CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

For the tenth time I checked my phone, and for the tenth time I didn’t have a text from Sinclair. I doubted that was AT&T’s fault; it was entirely on Sinclair. The big undead baby was no doubt still pouting because I wasn’t letting him Flintstone Hell.

I was thirsty—no surprise, I always was, it was a downside to vampirism—but didn’t need blood in Hell. I didn’t need blood as much as any of the other vampires (queen thing), and less in Hell (Satan 2.0 thing), but still: thirsty. So I headed to the food court to slake said unnatural thirst and also to check on my project.

I started to pull out my phone again, realized what I was doing, and made myself stop. Yes, that’s right, just stop. He’s almost as stubborn as you are; he won’t be texting anytime soon unless it’s an emergency. And maybe not even then.

God, am I doing this right? Any of this? As they did now and again, my internal thoughts switched over to prayer. Or, as I called it, bitching at my maker. If You have a better idea, or a better candidate, You should speak up anytime. If not, could You at least smite my enemies? They’re, like, legion.

Please help me get this right, and help me figure out how to juggle Hell, the vampire kingdom, my husband, my friends, my unholy thirst for blood, my lessening hatred for the Ant, my increasing hatred for the Antichrist, and the upcoming Gucci sample sale. Thank you, amen.

“Um, hello?”

I’d been so busy praying, I hadn’t realized I’d been standing in front of the Orange Julius counter doing an imitation of a statue. A praying statue running low on sleep, blood, and sex.

“Hi, girls.” Argh. Jennifer Palmer, despite appearances, hadn’t been a girl for a long time. Cindy, who was a girl, didn’t like being reminded. “How’s the buddy system going?”

“Fine,” Jennifer said quickly, already reaching for a cup. “You want the usual?”

“Please.”

“Oh, don’t!” Cindy said, putting a hand over the cup before Jennifer could fill it. “You won’t like it; it’ll taste terrible.”

“Not for her,” Jennifer said, gently pulling the cup away. “It’ll work for her. We talked about this.”

“Oh.” To me: “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for that. You were trying to help me not suck down a cup of awful.” What would the Orange Julius of the damned taste like for me? Hell was tailored; everyone’s experience was different and uniquely terrible. There were probably people here who hated Orange Juliuses, so everything they drank tasted like something Julius. For me, an Orange Julius made with rotten bananas would have been pretty hellish.

“Um, if you don’t mind my asking, what were you doing when you were just standing there? I mean, I know what it looked like, but that can’t be right.” Cindy asked this in a tone of voice more appropriate for “Why were you taking your clothes off and twerking?”

I ignored Jennifer’s shushing motions, probably because they were aimed at Cindy. “Praying.”

“But . . . why?” To Jennifer: “Stop pinching me. It’s okay to ask questions.”

“It’s really not,” she hissed back and gave Cindy another pinch for good measure. “Or at least not personal ones.”

“She’s right, Jennifer, it’s fine.” Cindy had known me (briefly) in life and hadn’t been impressed (I blamed the Peach Parlor: who could come across as an authority figure when they were bathed in peach?). Small wonder she wasn’t as in awe of me here. “As to why I was praying . . . why not? Have you tried it since you got here?”

“No,” Cindy said, sounding shocked.

“Well, think about it. Even if you don’t believe in God it can be like meditation.” Marc had babbled this theory to me a while back, and it stuck with me. Like Velcro! “It can be a way to get in touch with your inner—”

“I never said I didn’t believe in God!” Shocked, shocked at the very idea! While standing behind the Orange Julius counter talking to Satan 2.0 in Hell. It was kind of funny.

“—cheerleader.”

“I believe in God!”

Right, right, that’s why she’s here. Why a lot of them are here. “Okay. So. Why not pray, then?”

“Because I’m a vampire!”

“So am I.”

“I mean I was a vampire on earth—”

“Yeah, for a whole, what? Forty hours? Those two nights didn’t negate the previous sixteen years.”

“—when you killed me, and now I’m in Hell.”

“So am I.”

“No, I mean—I died. And went to Hell.”

“So did I. Well, I died first; getting to Hell took a couple of years. Look,” I added, because she seemed (to be kind) deeply confused. “Just try it. It’s not against the rules.” Wait, was it? I made a note to check with the Ant. “And if it is, it isn’t anymore.”

“It isn’t?” Jennifer asked.

“Wait, was that a rule? Back in the day?” Meaning, prior to a couple of months ago?

“Noooo.” I could see Jennifer giving her reply careful thought. Whatever she’d been in life (accidental arsonist, eighties fashion victim), she was a cautious, troubled woman in death. “It’s just—why bother? How would it help? How would God help? I mean . . . we’re here. What’s there to pray for?”

I opened my mouth to answer, then spotted Father Markus and the Ant—not a couple I’d ever seen together; ooh, could this be the start of a rom-com sitcom?—with their heads together in intimate conversation at the other end of the food court. I whistled to get their attention and waved them over. They traded glances I had no trouble interpreting and hurried over.

(Ugh, what’s she want now?)

Though it was possible I was projecting.

“Of course prayer is allowed in Hell,” the Ant said when I straight-out asked. “It’d be crazy to eliminate it.”

“Oh. Well, good. That’s one rule I won’t have to unilaterally abolish.”

“Where better?” Father Markus added, giving Jennifer and Cindy polite nods. “If anything, prayer should be encouraged. Knowing God will never hear them or help them just deepens the despair. Which is the point.”

“Um.” For a kindly priest, Father Markus could be kind of a hard-ass when he was inclined. Either he was kind of a dickwank in life or Hell was making him mean. I had a hunch which it was, and I didn’t like it. If I was right, it didn’t bode well for Sinclair coming back here anytime soon. “Well, I happen to disagree—I think God would listen. But anyway.” I turned back to the girls. Women. The damned women of the Orange Julius booth of the damned. “Pray away, ladies.”

“Good to know,” Jennifer replied, and she actually smiled when Cindy giggled. The Ant rolled her eyes, while Father Markus just looked disapproving. I saw Marc and Tina in animated conversation a few tables away and waved (what, was it break time?), and when they spotted me they got up and came right over.

“Hi,” Marc said to Cindy. “Do you remember me?”

“I’m sorry,” she said at once in a small voice, looking anywhere but his face.

“So, that’d be a yes?” He smiled, trying to put her at ease. “Hey, don’t sweat it. No permanent damage. See?” He rolled up his sleeves and bared his arms. Not a mark. “It’s a perk when you live with what’s-her-face, here.”

“Having you in my life is the ultimate mixed blessing.” I sighed. What’s-her-face? Really?

“What are you?” Cindy asked, staring at him. “I remember you tasted all wrong. It just made me . . . madder and—and hungrier.”

“It’s a long story,” he replied just as my hip vibrated. Text! Ah, here came the sweet anticipated apology from Sinclair, whom I would eventually forgive because I loved him and also because he liked to express remorse via oral sex. “And I come off really zombie-ish in it . . . What? Betsy? ’S’matter?”

I gulped and reread it.

Remain in your solitary kingdom if you will, but know that the Antichrist and I will be locked in a battle to the death by the end of the week.

“Holy shit!” Marc practically screamed, rudely reading over my shoulder again.

And we require ice and strawberries.

“What the zombie said,” I replied grimly, and I looked up at my friends. “Time to go.”