Undead 10, Undead and Undermined - MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,11

you.

All that was still thrumming around in my gray matter when the last of the expositional flashback clicked home.

Then we heard the splintering crash come from the stairwell.

I stood, trembling at the silence, and peered into the foyer. I choked back a sob at what Garrett had done to himself.

The regretful Fiend-turned-vampire had kicked the banister off a stretch of curved stairs in the foyer, leaving a dozen or so of the rails exposed and pointing up like spears. Then he had climbed to the second floor to a spot overlooking the stairs and swan dived onto the rails, which had gone through him like teeth.

“See?” my dead stepmother said as we stared down at the second body of a friend in less than a minute. “I warned you.”

And the last thing. The last thing I said at the end of that crazy stupid weird scary night.

“It was all just so—so stupid.” And preventable, my conscience had whispered. If only you’d been paying attention to business.

And here was the proof! The proof had walked through my kitchen door. The proof was wearing red and white flannel, and carrying a canvas tote bag stuffed with primary colored balls of yarn and knitting needles. I wondered why in this timeline, Garrett hadn’t killed himself after Antonia died. Did something happen in this timeline’s Garrett that made the death of his wife bearable?

“This timeline’s Garrett”, “that timeline’s so-and-so” . . . gaaaaah. I needed an Alternate Timeline vs. Other Timeline scorecard. I was gonna get a headache if I thought it over for too long. And why was I even wondering? Here he was.

Who cared why?

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Please don’t tell me anything new for the next half hour,” I begged. I started to lurch to my feet; Sinclair simply grasped my hand and helped me. He was so strong it was like I was floating to my feet. His hand stayed in mine and I squeezed it. He squeezed back.

Okay. This was weird. This was all beyond weird, this was all extremely damned weird, but. But! Everything I’d seen, heard, and felt proved Sinclair and I were in love in this timeline, too. That meant I could . . . I could probably handle any other weirdness as long as I could count on that. Dear God, THAT WAS NOT A BET. I’m not daring you to freak me out more, God, okay? Okay. You’re not to consider that a challenge OF ANY SORT. In Jesus’ sake. Amen.

“How are we supposed to know what you know or don’t know?” Marc asked, aggrieved. When I’d pitched out of my chair, my drink had flopped (thick! like Greek yogurt) to the floor. Marc had picked it up, put it in the sink, and was now wiping up the mess.

“I have no idea, but please figure it out this instant.” I leaned against Sinclair, which was unnecessary but yummy. That boy was built like a barn door, all broad and hard.

Barn door? I must have hit my head harder than I thought. There was nothing sexy about a barn door. Unless I was jammed up against it while Sinclair played pirate (the swashbuckling kind from the 1700s, not the icky Somalian kind from right now).

“. . . help me?”

“Huh?” Okay. No time to think of pirates. Time to focus. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“When will you be prepared to help me?” Garrett asked again.

“Good question. Okay. Let’s figure this out. My big new plan was for you and me to go to hell,” I prompted him, “so we can get your wife.”

He nodded. He was still carrying his tote o’ knitting supplies, and it was super cute.

“Your wife . . . who is dead now. Here,” I clarified, “in this timeline.”

He nodded again. Ahhh, Garrett, how it all came back to me . . . like how he never talked. Shit, for the first few months he lived here, he couldn’t talk. But he fed on my blood, and the blood of the Antichrist (long story) and remembered all sorts of things. Like how to talk. And crochet baby blankets. And knit sweaters. He made a black sweater with yellow piping for Sinclair last year. My husband wore it once but, when I collapsed into laughter and spent the afternoon calling him Bee Man, never wore it again.

“Why do you think Antonia’s in hell?”

Garrett blinked, surprised. Then, “Where else would she be?”

I thought about Antonia’s near-constant pissy mood, her fuming anger, which was occasionally overtaken by spitting