Chapter 16

Don't let my gorgeous face fool you," Marc said, dabbing Julius out of his eyebrows. "I do occasionally have to resort to detective work. Even research. And that stuff-well, it made all the local papers at the time. The guy was the pride of Minnesota, the state's biggest philanthropist, proudly raised on a farm (so the yokels liked him, too), and had better press than Tiger Woods, pre-affairs."

"Yes," I managed through gritted teeth. I hated even hearing the fuck-o's name, never mind about his disguise as a dad who wasn't a perverted narcissistic egomaniac. "He got good press in life."

"Right up 'til his daughter made headlines winning her emancipated status. And his fatal car crash with his wife the same day."

I looked longingly into my empty Julius cup. Another four or five of these would go down great. Also? I felt remorseful and stupid, which I hate. I should have known Marc would have figured out all that stuff, probably about ten minutes after he met Jessica the first time.

He jabbed his finger in my general direction. "You should have known I'd figure that stuff out."

"I was thinking that very thing."

"I know why you hate November-and there was no need to knock over the entire Fine Cooking display at the Barnes and Noble."

"I couldn't take it. Sixty pictures of giant bronzed roasted turkeys. It-it loomed, practically."

"Still. If you hadn't mojo'd the manager, we'd be sitting in the security office right now. Anyway, I know you're anti-Thanksgiving and anti-family-"

"I am not anti-family!" I brought the flat of my hand down on the table, then winced when I heard the sharp crack. Stupid, cheap plastic tables. "I'm pro-family. I'm all for families. But our situation is not a family. It's a comic book. We've got the Antichrist, my eighty-year-old dead husband, my dead stepmother who gets off on popping into my room when I'm exploring the wonderful world of chocolate syrup with Sinclair-"

"Aw, God." Marc rubbed his eyes. "Do you know how long it's been since I got laid?"

"-my dead father who isn't haunting me for some reason-"

"Wait. Are you complaining that he's dead or that he's not one of the ghosts giving you to-do lists?"

"-my orphaned best friend who recently quit having cancer, my half-brother-slash-son who is immune to any and all paranormal weirdness-"

"Not the worst superpower to have."

"-a gay ER doc equally obsessed with sex, texting, and Beyonce-"

"Which makes me completely normal, except with really good taste."

"-and a roommate-slash-secretary-slash-bodyguard who knows my husband better than I ever will-"

"Don't forget how awesomely hot she is. I mean, you're cute, Betsy, but Tina ..." Marc whistled and glanced at the ceiling. "D'you think she'd cut her hair and give it to me?"

I flinched but kept on: "That's my family, okay? Norman Rockwell never painted this. Because if he did? Everyone would run screaming from the room. Sort of like I'm thinking about doing right now."

"Boo-hoo. You're in perfect health-"

"I'm dead, Dr. Doofus!"

"And rich-"

"But it's not my money."

"Community-property state, babe. And you're married to a gorgeous guy who adores you, and you have all kinds of cool Scooby-esque adventures-"

"Which occasionally end with a friend catching bullets with her frontal lobe."

"I'm just sayin'," he continued, unmoved by my rising hysteria. "Better find another shoulder to cry on, honey."

"I will." I jumped up. Time to get gone before I decided to see how often Marc would bounce if I threw him over the railing and into the amusement park. "I will do exactly that."

"See ya," he replied, admirably unconcerned.

I snatched his unopened can of Coke, taking bitchy pleasure in his flinch-he probably hadn't seen me move. "And I'm taking this. Yeah! Reap the whirlwind."

I stomped toward the escalators, not acknowledging his, "Don't forget, you said you'd clean Giselle's litter box tonight!"

As far as parting shots went, it was a pretty good one.

Chapter 17

All is well, beloved stud muffin o'mine. I have decided to forgive you."

I was smiling at Sinclair from our bedroom doorway. Yep, time to forgive him for whatever it was he did, and get laid. It had been-jeez, was that right? Four days? Four? No wonder I felt so bitchy and out of control.

"Mmm," the love of my (un)life hummed. His back was to me as he was sitting at the small shaker-style desk in the corner, working on his laptop. We usually had a please-no-paperwork-but-how-about-oral-sex-instead rule in our bedroom, but exceptions were made now and again. I mean, he was a rich powerful king-type guy. When we weren't putting our footprints on the ceiling, memos had to be read. Or written. Or whatever the hell he did on that thing.

"So, I didn't see you here last night when I came back."

Nothing.

"In fact, I haven't seen much of you in the last day or two. What with our little, uh, you know, and the devil dropping by."

Tap-tap-tap of his fingers hitting the keyboard.

"So, the devil. Dropped by. But I took care of it." Yep, never underestimate the negotiating power of felony assault.

"How fortunate none of your thoughtless actions will come back to haunt us. Or hurt us." Tap, Tap-tap,

"Uh ... okay. Are you all right?"

Tap, TAP-TAP-TAP, I wondered if the tips of his fingers were going to punch through the keyboard. "No," Sinclair replied. "I am not. I have an inordinate amount of paperwork. I must clean up another of your messes. I have asked you no less than four times to be at my side for a significant social obligation-"

"What, this again? C'mon, Sinclair, teatime with vamps? Barf. And again, I say barf."

"I. Wasn't. Finished." Still he wouldn't look at me. Why wouldn't he turn around and look at me? More: Why weren't we having sex right now? "You say you want our people to be more independent, less predatory, and-how did you so charmingly phrase it? Ah. 'Less sucky in all things, pun intended.' "

"Heh." Good one.

"But you resist any opportunity to give them positive reinforcement. You resist any opportunities to appear at my side as a show of our concentrated, combined ruling authority. You-"

"-are wondering who bit you on the ass." I knew it wasn't me, literally or figuratively. Could he have a headache? A fang-ache? Overworked, maybe? Hard to imagine ... Sinclair lived for this shit. Grumpy because he was on the same four-day-sexless streak I was? Bingo.

I crossed the room and put my hands on his shoulders, surprised to find his muscles were thrumming like steel cables. "Yeesh, you're grumpy tonight. But I have a cure, which will entail you making that sexy-clinkey sound when you unbuckle your belt, and then I will make that oh-God-put-it-in-right-now sound, and-"

"Do not say that!"

"What? What?" I was astonished; he hadn't shouted it so much as roared it. Then I realized a God had slipped out, which felt to most vampires like a paper cut. On the genitals.

"Oh, jeez, I-oh, jeez! I mean, sorry. Uh, sorry. It just slipped out."

"It continually slips out. You have no interest in modifying your behavior even when it harms those closest to you. You have had years to implement this adjustment and have not troubled yourself. This, while those around you risk their lives. Or lose their lives. I find it ... dishonorable."

Was it possible I never left Payless Shoes with Laura the other day? Instead of coming here for the Saturday Satanic Movie Fest, perhaps I'd passed out in Payless and everything that had happened since was some sort of crappy-shoe-induced fever dream brought on by lack of sex and impending November.

I guess he got tired of me just standing there with my mouth unsprung, because he put the final spank on his verbal cat o'nine tails with, "I require your absence."

"Uh. You do?"

"Remove your hands. Then remove the rest of you. Quietly, if you can manage such a feat."

I yanked my hands back as though he'd gotten lava hot. Then I took a slow step backward. Then another.

Something was seriously screwed up. Had I been that much of a brat the other day? Well, sure. But this was not new behavior. Certainly not new to Sinclair, who ran up against my self-involved brattiness about eight seconds after we met.

"You seem ... um ... upset. D'you want a smoothie?" Or a tranquilizer? I wondered if Marc had made it back from his AA meeting yet; I had the feeling I'd need his shoulder again, and there were only so many burdens I dared put on Jessica this time of year.

Marc had a love-hate relationship with AA. As he described it, AA was like a high school girlfriend who was hot, one you'd known for a long time, but who also cheated on you. So Marc and AA broke up at least once a year but always got back together. And why the hell was I thinking about Marc's easy-come-easy-go alcoholism now?

I wrenched my thoughts onto a more relevant track. "When did you feed last?"

I was surprised to feel my shoulder blades hit the bedroom door. I'd let him back me all the way across the room. Or, rather, I'd let me back me all the way across the room.

I had seen Sinclair enraged, despondent, joyful, horny, worried, irritated, tender, motivated, goaded, annoyed, terrified, ravenous, and provoked. But the stranger hanging out in my husband's suit? I'd never met him before. Cold and hateful were sentiments I never dreamed my heart's love, my only love, would use on me.

Also: he hadn't bothered to answer my question. For a weird moment I thought maybe this time, I was the ghost.

"Maybe I'll just ..." What? Kill him? Kill myself? Race for Tina's vodka collection? Set the house on fire? Smack myself in the face until I woke up? That last was probably not the worst plan in the world ...

"Why are you still here?" He didn't bother to raise his voice that time. And he sure hadn't turned around to look at me. He was re-engrossed in his work; I no longer rated strong emotion.

Then, a life preserver was tossed my way when I'd never wanted an escape hatch more: "Living Dead Girl" started blaring from my pants.

My ring tone. My hands shot into the pocket of my cargo pants (hurrah for eighteen pockets of varying sizes even if khaki made me look like I recently escaped basic training!) as I clawed for the Rob Zombie-blaring lifesaver.

"Oh, thank God. I mean, hello?"

"Betsy?" A small, crumpled voice. A tearful voice. "Betsy, are you there?"

Sure, Laura, I just don't know where here is right now, what with my husband channeling Joey Buttafuoco. "What's wrong? You sound-"

"I'm naked!"

"Uh, figuratively, or-"

"I just woke up here!" she whisper-screamed. "I don't know how I got here. All I remember is going to bed last night in my room, and now I'm naked in the spoon!"

As someone born and raised within an hour's drive of the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis, I knew at once what the problem was and, even better, where it was.

"I'm coming," I told her, dropping the phone back in my pocket and all but diving out my bedroom door.

It wasn't running away. It sure wasn't a retreat. A family member needed help. I had to go, no matter what just happened with my husband, no matter how much I wanted to stay and thrash this out.

Yup. That was my story. It even had the advantage of sounding almost true.