Chapter 67
Other Me and ancient Sinclair must have a bedroom
around here somewhere. Probably a whole suite. A chilly, freezing
underground suite where they poke skinny computers and can’t
remember who makes their bed. Not that Sinclair was ever known for
lurking in bedrooms during business hours. Other Me is working in
her office . . . he must have one, too.”
“Think Jon will take
us there?”
“Sure, why wouldn’t
he? He’s sooo sweet. And oh my God, it pains me to say anything
nice about the Ant, but did she and my dad make a gorgeous kid or
what? Also! He’s nice because I raised
him! Truly I astonish myself with my awesomeness. Once in a while,
I mean.”
“You’re right about
all of that, but remember: he does whatever Other You tells him. If
she doesn’t want you to see Sinclair . . .”
“Hmmm. She knows how
I think. And she probably remembers how you think. You know what? I
just realized ... there must be an ancient you around here,
too.”
“I know,” Laura said,
looking grim. “I’ve been trying not to think about
it.”
I didn’t blame her.
If I’d gotten frigid and boring in a thousand years, what had
happened to Laura? My mind shied away from even trying to picture
it, and I let it. “So you keep Jon busy. I’ll try to dig up my
husband. Get it? Dig up?”
“Ugh.”
“But first
we’ll—”
“Oh my goodness, the
rumors were true!”
I knew that voice,
and sheer force of habit had me turning with a big smile. A smile
that fell off my face like an anvil off a cliff.
Marc.
Marc was a
vampire.
He rushed up to us
with near-blinding speed, and Laura flinched back, hard. He gave me
a spine-crushing squeeze and a cold kiss on both cheeks. I had to
clench my fists to keep from rubbing his mark off my face. Both his
marks.
“And you don’t look a
day older than thirty. No matter what century it is!”
He sounded all right.
He even looked all right. But he felt all wrong. He felt bad. A
stupid and simple word, but one that fit. I knew, just by looking
at him, that he was bad. Maybe it was a queen thing.
No. It wasn’t. Laura
looked as horrified as I felt.
He grinned, showing
fangs. Which I happened to know he didn’t need to do. They only
came out when we smelled blood or were feeding. He was doing it to
creep us out.
“What the hell
happened to you?” I snapped, in no mood to feign happiness to see
him. Laura went, if possible, even whiter. I wasn’t sure why. I
didn’t care that this thing was my
friend a thousand years ago. I didn’t even care that I’d saved him
from a high dive off a roof a thousand years ago. Whatever he was
now, he wasn’t my friend. If he fucked with me or Laura in any way,
I’d play Hacky Sack with his balls.
“Don’t you mean
who happened to me, honey?” His grin
widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Nothing reached his eyes. I
glanced into them, then away.
Nobody
home.
“So, what are you
saying, Marky Mark and the Psycho Bunch? Are you saying I did that
to you? Or Tina or Sinclair? Don’t be coy, shit stain. Cough
up.”
“Tina or Sinclair!
That’s awesome!” The Marc-Thing threw
back his head (he’d died with a buzz cut, and it was so annoying
that he was still terrific looking) and laughed, as my dead
grandmother would have said, “fit to split.” “Tina or Sinclair,
that is the question, isn’t it? In
fact, that’s my favorite question.
Because—”
“Marc.”
The Marc-Thing choked
off his laugh as though somebody’d slammed an axe through his
teeth. Which, believe me, was tempting.
We looked. Other Me
was standing at the other end of the hallway, temporarily free of
her office. I noticed she had matching steel gray stockings and
sensible black flats. I was too far away to see the designer. Since
it was all winter all the time, I supposed I should have been
grateful the future me didn’t clomp around in mukluks.
Were there any
designers in the world anymore? I wasn’t sure I wanted to live in a
world if there weren’t. Eternal winter I could have tolerated,
especially if my family was with me, but . . . no designers? That
was too much to ask of anyone.
“Don’t you have
somewhere to be, Marc?” Ancient Me asked.
“Not really,” he
admitted, but he turned and walked rapidly away before Ancient Me
could say anything else.
“Good dog,” I called.
“Woof, woof.”
His shoulders
stiffened. But he didn’t slow or look back.