Chapter 10
l stomped down the Gone with the
Wind-esque flight of stairs (carpeted in deep red plush, how
positively Scarlett) and passed through a couple of hallways. (This
place had more bathrooms than the White House, not to mention
armoires, linen closets, dumbwaiters, parlors, bedrooms, and
butler’s pantries—I’d found three so far.)
For the hundredth
time I wondered what I, Elizabeth Don’t-call-me-that Taylor, was
doing living in a mansion stuffed with paranormal oddities like my
husband. For that matter, what was I, Elizabeth Taylor, doing
being a paranormal oddity in the first
place?
It hadn’t been that
long ago that I was footloose and fancy-free, living on my own, in
my own house, not married, not babysitting the undead or the
teething, just getting my shit done and occasionally indulging in
the new Beverly Feldman spring pump.
Maybe that was my
problem: I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought myself a new
pair of shoes.
How ... how could
this have happened to my life? No wonder everything was fucked up!
My God, it was all so clear ...
I had wandered into
the kitchen, not quite by accident. The room was as big as a
stadium, but warm and inviting ... big long counters, a couple of
fridges always stocked with snacks, big bar stools and lots of
magazines and newspapers spread all over the marble countertop Tina
occasionally rolled out cookies on. (Which was funny, because she
couldn’t eat them. None of us could, except Jessica, who was always
morbidly worried about gaining weight and edging up into the
dreaded 102-pound territory. Where the hell did all the cookies
go?)
As I half expected,
Tina was already there. She was freshly showered—no surprise,
because she smelled like blood. Just back from hunting,
then.
Tina and my husband
had to feed daily (nightly, I s‘pose). The unwritten rule was, we
fed on bad guys only. So if you were a mugger or rapist or killer
or thief or embezzler, watch out. You were eligible for our nightly
snack-‘n’-go program. We’d snack, and you’d just ... go. Where, we
didn’t much care.
She was standing in
front of the freezer, hanging on to the open door, wearing her
post-shower uniform of a neck-to-toes nightgown of gorgeous, heavy
cream-colored linen. With her cascades of blonde hair and her big
brown eyes, she looked like an extra from Little House on the Prairie, A hot
extra.
I suddenly realized
something I knew about Tina—you know how you don’t know you know
something until you realize you do
know? (Shut up. It makes sense if you think about it.) What I now
knew was that Tina always dressed as modestly as a schoolmarm. The
most daring ensemble I ever saw her in was a pair of linen walking
shorts topped with a long-sleeved T-shirt.
She favored skirts
and long pants. Turtlenecks and long nightgowns—never anything
frothy or revealing. I remembered she once told me she’d become a
vampire during the Civil War (or was she born during the war?
Couldn’t remember ...); apparently old habits of modesty died hard.
Or, in Tina’s case, didn’t die at all.
She was, I knew,
eyeing her vast and weird vodka collection. Like any vampire, she
was continually compulsively thirsty. Like me, she occasionally
tried to drown it with stuff besides blood. Also like me, she
failed every time ... but enjoyed the trying.
Here she was pulling
out a bottle—ugh, chili pepper-flavored vodka. Like a drink made
from potatoes wasn’t yuck-o enough.
Nope, she didn’t want
pepper-flavored. Back into the freezer it went. Here came cinnamon.
Somewhat better, I s’pose, but nope, she didn’t want that one,
either. Here came—aw, no! Bacon! Bacon-flavored vodka! (I swear to
God I am not making this up. Wikipedia it if you don’t believe
me.)
I was going to barf
right now. Right here in the kitchen near the feet of one of my
most loyal vampire minions. Nothin’ was stopping the Vomit Express.
Except possibly the fact that I hadn’t barfed since waking up dead
in that funeral home three years ago.
Concentrate. Think
about all the nice things Tina’s done. Think about what a crass,
crummy thing throwing up on her feet would be. Think about ...
think about the fact that she wouldn’t even let you clean it
up!