The kitchen phone rang, and I ran toward it, stopping to plop Babyjon in his port-a-crib (a subsidiary of BabyCrap™) on the way, where he promptly flopped over on his back and went to sleep. Yeah, well, dead parents were exhausting for everybody.

I gave thanks for all the junk we'd bought when he'd been born, hoping to have occasional chances to babysit. Babysit, not raise him to adulthood! But because of my precautions, we had diapers, cribs, formula, bottles, baby blankets, and onesies up the wazoo.

It was funny, the Ant had only warmed up to nu when she saw how much Babyjon liked me. As .1 newborn, he screamed almost constantly from colic (or perhaps rage at the decor of his nursery) and only shut up when I held him. Once the Ant saw that, I was the number one babysitter.

Sinclair had not been pleased. But I wasn't going to think about Sinclair, except how much I was about to yell at him when I got him on the phone.

The thought of surprising Sinclair with this kid, I have to admit, gave me a certain perverse pleasure. It salved the terror I felt at the sudden responsibility.

I skidded across the floor and snatched the phone in the middle of the sixth ring. "Hello? Sinclair? You bum! Where are you? Hello?"

"-can't-cell-''

"Who is this?"

"-too far-can't-hear"

I could barely make out the words through the thick static. "Who! Is! This!"

"-worry-message-country"

"Marc? Is that you?"

"-no other way-don't-okay-"

"Tina?"

"-back-time-"

"Dad? If you're calling from beyond the grave, I'm going to be very upset," I threatened. There wasn't even a click. Just a dead line.

I sat down at the table, deliberately forgetting about all the times the bunch of us had sat around making smoothies or inventing absurd drinks (e.g., The Queen Betsy: one ounce amaretto, two ounces orange juice, three ounces cranberry juice, seven ounces of champagne, and let me tell you, it was heaven in a martini glass).

I thought: Everybody's gone. Everybody.

I thought: How could they do this to me?

Okay, Jessica had an excuse. Battling cancer via chemo was a dandy way to get out of social obligations. And Detective Berry-well, I didn't especially want him around. He had known, once upon a time, that I had died and come back to life. I had drunk his blood, once upon a time, and it had gone badly. Sinclair had fixed it by making Nick forget. The last thing I needed was for him to be at the same funeral home he'd come to two Aprils ago for my funeral.

No, it was good for Nick to be at Jessica's side when he wasn't foiling killers and petty thieves.

Same with Tina. When she left to check on the European vampires, she had no idea this was going to happen. No, I couldn't blame her, either.

But Marc? He of all people didn't have a life, and he picks now to disappear? To not call, or return calls?

Mom? (Like she couldn't have gotten someone else to watch Babyjon?)

Sinclair? The guy who knew friggin' everything didn't show up for the double funeral?

Laura? She rebelled against her mom, the devil, by being the most churchgoing, God-fearing person you ever saw (when she wasn't killing serial killers or beating the shit out of vampires), but she couldn't be bothered to go to a family funeral?

Cathie the ghost, on a fucking world tour?

Antonia? Garrett? Okay, I hadn't known them very long, but they did live in my (Jessica's) house rent-free. I'd taken her in when her Pack wanted nothing to do with her. When the other werewolves were scared shitless of her. And Garrett? I'd saved him from staking multiple times. But they took off on me, too.

What the fuck excuse did any of them have? They were supposed to be my friends, my fiance, my family, my roommates. So why was I rattling around in this big-ass mansion by myself? Except for Babyjon, snoring in the corner? Shit, nobody even sent me flowers! It wasn't fair. And don't tell me life isn't fair, either. Like a vampire doesn't know that?