My jaw sagged in shock; the gun never wavered. “You—you knew?” Once Jessica got over the new chemo round, I was going to kill her! "And what's that supposed to mean, 'such as it—
“Of course I knew,” he said impatiently. “I've known since that taxi driver gave his report—you remember. About a gorgeous blond woman who chased off a vampire and picked his car up with two fingers?”
“But—but—but—”
“Why didn't I say anything? Because you all took such great pains to keep it from me. If Jessica had wanted me to know, she would have told me. And I was content to wait. And then this—this thing happened to her. And that was the end of the waiting. So in case you missed it the first time: if you sit by and let this happen, I will make you regret the day you ever met me.”
“Already regretting,” I gurgled, since he was digging the barrel of his gun pretty tightly into my chin. “I already asked her if I could turn her.”
“Then what the fuck are you waiting for? For her to vomit until she dies like Karen Carpenter? For her to be more miserable? For her to rupture the lining of her throat? For the chemo to kill more healthy cells?”
“Owwwww!” I complained, because boy, he was really grinding the Sig into my chin. “I'm not waiting for anything, Detective Demento. She said no. And that was that.”
“So? You're stronger, faster than us. You can make us believe something. . . or forget.” I should have I been super pissed, but instead I was embarrassed and my heart actually flipped over in my chest. Because he sounded bitter, so bitter.
He leaned forward until our eyes were about four niches apart. Mine were wide, I knew, with amazement. His were slits of blue fire. “I thought I was going crazy, you know? Kept dreaming about you for months. Dreaming about you biting me and me. . . liking. . . it. Needing it.”
“I didn't know,” I said faintly “I was newborn. Still am. I didn't know what I was doing to you. I'd have given anything to fix it, but I didn't know how. An older vampire fixed it.”
“I know who fixed it,” he informed me. “I dream about him, too. Dream about blowing his fucking mind-meddling head-peeping brains out. Dream about setting him on fire. Most nights I'm afraid to close my eyes.”
“Nick, I'm sorr—”
“Know who fixed that? Your best friend. The one currently engaged in the business of dying. Your hellhound bastard lover fixed me, honey, and you're gonna to fix her .”
I thought about taking the gun away. I could probably do it. Probably. Too bad I had the nasty feeling his finger was white on the trigger. I'd survived arrows to the chest, and a stake to the chest, and even a bullet to the chest. But a Sig Sauer clip to the brain? I had no idea. And I had no plans to find out. The week had been weird enough without getting shot, thanks very much.
And who would take care of Babyjon, if I were left with half a head? I need to write a will, I thought crazily Can I do that, now that I'm dead? Maybe Marjorie can help. But who do I trust to watch Babyjon—
“I'm waiting,” he whispered.
“Nick, you've gone seriously nuts, you know?”
“What can I say?” he replied, almost cheerfully. “I'm in love.”
“Uh-huh.” I thought about mojoing him, except I had my damned sunglasses on. I doubted he'd give me the second I needed to take them off. “Listen, Nick, I already told you twice, I can't—”
He cut me off, smiling. “Are we clear, Betsy? Honey? Deadly sweetheart with a killer figure and long legs and green eyes to get lost in? Are we clear?”
“I hear you, detective. But it's her choice. Not mine. And not yours. So get that peashooter off of me before I make you eat it.”
He grinned entirely without humor, but pulled the gun down and holstered it. His eyes were still flat. “Nice seeing you again, Betsy,” he said cheerfully, and actually held the door for me as I picked up Babyjon, and scuttled out. I didn't know which was scarier: the Bat rage or the fake (or was it fake?) recovery.
What was going on with everybody?
Chapter 13
All the way home, I was practically gasping for breath. Which, as I didn't need to breathe, made me dizzy. So I held my breath for five minutes, trying to calm down. It worked. A little.
Nick knew? A Minneapolis detective knew I was a vampire, that my runaway groom was a vampire? How many other cops knew? Even if he was the only one (and one was waaay too many), what if he found out about Antonia the werewolf, assuming the walkabout wench ever came back? And Garrett? And if Jessica got worse or—oh God please no—died, what was he going to do? What the fuck was I going to do?
Mojoing him was out. Sinclair's clearly hadn't taken. Or had taken for a while and then worn off.
II why? Sinclair was a pretty damned powerful vampire—old, and the king besides.
I took a yellow light way too fast, remembered Babyjon trapped—I mean strapped—in the car seat behind me, and slowed to a reasonable speed.
Why had Sinclair's “you are getting very sleepy” routine worn off? He could make people forget their own mothers. Was it because—it couldn't be. Naw. That was idiocy and worse, ego.
But. . . well, I couldn't shake the idea that because the long-prophesied queen of the vampires (moi) had gotten to Nick first, Sinclair never had a chance. That lie maybe fixed it for a while, but my power was too strong, and eventually Nick remembered.
Naw. That was too conceited, even for me.
Although it was pretty much the only thing that made sense, unless Nick had been lying about Jess not telling him. And I knew in my dead heart that Jessica would set herself on fire before telling my secrets.
Sure, the Book of the Dead prophesied that I would be the strongest, coolest, most badass vampire in a thousand years, but I still had trouble actually grasping it, you know? Shit, sixteen months ago I was a secretary dreading her thirtieth birthday. But the Book had been right about everything else. So why not this?
Which meant, maybe the way to fix this was to mojo Nick myself.
Except I wasn't sure I dared. For one thing, he would be ready for that—for me.
For another, I wasn't keen on mind-raping my best friend's boyfriend.
And for another, what right did I have to wipe anybody's brain, even if it was dangerous not to? I wasn't God. I was just me, Betsy, one-time secretary and part-time vampire and soon-to-be married woman.
I screeched into my driveway, decamped with Babyjon, hustled through the front door and up the stairs to his nursery. Changed him, fed him, burped him, all the while trying to figure out what to do about Nick. And Jessica. And Sinclair. And Antonia. And—
The door chimes rang, and I leapt out of the rocking chair, gaining another gasping burp from my brother. I plopped him into the crib (it was 6:30 p.m.—time for his mid-afternoon nap) and hustled down the stairs.
Yippee! Who would it be? Did Garrett eat his key again so they couldn't get to it? Had Sinclair sent flowers? Was Nick waiting on the porch with a twelve gauge shotgun? Was it my mom? (I would consider listening to an apology.) Had Marc escaped the clutches of whatever madman had snatched him from his shift at the ER? Had Tina's coffin been rolled in from the airport? And would I have to sign for it? Was Laura stopping by with her usual sweetness to offer condolences and offer to take Babyjon off my hands?
Who cared? It was somebody, by God. I wasn't going to be rattling around the house by myself a minute longer, and that was cause for a Hallelujah brother!
I yanked the door open, a cry of welcome (or “Holster that sidearm, Nick”) on my lips. I had just enough time to register the gleam of a wedding ring, as a fist the size of both of mine smashed into my face, knocking me back into the foyer.