Chapter 18
Hennepin Avenue wasn't too wretched-it was only ten at night-which made me wonder why Laura was waking up at such an odd hour (and naked, no less). She was a student at the U of M; she tended to stick to the typical daytime schedule of a nine-to-fiver. Time enough to pin her down on that one once I rescued her from the spoon.
The spoon was one of the things the Twin Cities were famous for (aside from subzero temperatures that would make a weasel squeal).
It was an enormous sculpture of a spoon with a cherry sitting in the bowl of said spoon, and was the pride and joy of the sculpture garden. The husband-and-wife team who created it were hailed as artistic geniuses, and gobs of people came to look at the thing every year.
Not me, though. Once was enough (ninth-grade field trip, which was made even more exciting when Jessica barfed her Dilly Bar all over my new sweater). Okay, it was a very nice gigantic spoon. And a very vibrant, pretty cherry.
Uh, geniuses? The ones who thought this up were geniuses? The guy-the husband-even admitted that he sketched while he ate. He would get inspired. While he ate. No wonder he thought of doing a giant spoon. He was probably wolfing down ice cream at the time. Maybe even an ice cream sundae. With a big red guess what on top? I s'pose we're lucky he didn't sculpt a giant pudding cup. Or a giant tuna melt.
Okay, so, as a people, we midwesterners are easily impressed. All anyone has to do is eyeball the sculpture garden to figure that out. Don't even get me started on the guy who did the sculpture of a bench. He used three kinds of materials for his sculpture. Of a bench. Which people keep insisting is art. When it's a bench.
This was probably why my major had been Studies in Cinema, as opposed to Art History, before I dropped out. Never mind; I had stuff to do and Antichrists to haul out of giant cherries.
I parked (badly), then beat feet over to the sculpture garden. I was wearing good shoes, of course, but they were Dolce and Gabbana floral print sandals, which meant they were gorgeous, expensive, and flat. I could actually run in them.
For a wonder-at least it was a chilly night-there weren't any couples trying to sneak over to have sex in the spoon. So I found Laura alone, shivering, and-she hadn't exaggerated for dramatic effect, though I'd had hopes-naked.
"What happened?" I asked, already shrugging out of my jacket. I handed her a small, crumpled Target bag-no time to shop, or wrap-which held one of a thousand pairs of my leggings. (You know how, a couple years ago, everybody credited Lindsay Lohan with bringing back leggings? A vicious, damnable lie. I brought 'em back. Me.)
I didn't bother to bring shoes-she was two sizes bigger than me. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"I don't know! I woke up in here. And I was cold and this thing-this spoon is so cold! And-"
"Wait. You woke up like this? Just like this?" I watched as she yanked on my leggings-should have remembered to bring underwear-and pulled the jacket closed over her breasts. "How did you call me?"
"There was a guy with a sketchbook-he said he'd quit sketching because it was dark, but was still hanging around-and he gave me his phone. He said I could use it. And then he-" She peeked around the spoon. "I guess he left."
"I didn't pass anyone." And couldn't smell or hear anyone. Enh ... one worry at a time. "What's the last thing you remember?"
"Saying 'I guess he left' just now," the Antichrist snapped. A rare display of temper; I guess waking up in a big chunk of art made her testy.
"Before you woke up, I meant."
"I told you!" Her teeth were clacking together like ivory castanets. "I went to bed. I wasn't feeling good again-"
"Again?"
"Can I finish?"
"Don't bite my head off because you've got impulse-control issues."
"Sorry," she said, sulking. "I went to bed just before supper-time. I've been feeling kind of crummy, but nothing like-"
"Wait. You've been sick?"
She nodded, shivering and miserable. "I didn't tell you-it's just cramps. And headaches. I guess I should have ..."
I laughed. "What? Predicted you'd wake up as the sculpture garden's newest exhibit?"
She smiled. It was teeny-no teeth-but it was a smile. "When you put it like that ..."
I reached out and took her hand, which was as chilly as mine-a good trick, since my heart only pumped about four times a minute. "C'mon, let's get you-" I cocked my head.
"What's wrong? Does your stomach hurt, too?"
"No, but I think I know what your Good Samaritan's been up to." As I spoke, a tall, well-built blond stepped out from behind one of the clumps of trees. He was dressed in dark slacks, loafers, a white dress shirt, and a navy jacket. He was clean shaven, wearing wire rims, and smiling at us.
"Thank you for-" Laura began, then stopped when two other men stepped out behind the first.
"-the attempted gang rape," I finished. They didn't look the type-nice clothes, pleasant and open expressions. Recently showered. But then, one thing I've figured out: rapists didn't always lurk in alleys drinking hooch from brown paper bags. And killers weren't always shuffling around the fringes of things, playing God with handguns and rewriting their manifestos.
"I see your sister came," the first one said. Yeesh; he even sounded boy-next-door. "First her money. Then the party."
I snorted, and Laura said, "That's not nice, you-you cretin."
"Less talk," another one said. "More naked."
"Oh boy," I said. It was the perfect surreal touch to a late-night visit to the Walker. "You poor dumbass. Did you pick the wrong girls."
The one who had remained silent-a redhead, with the creamy freckled complexion of same-spoke up. "Why are you still dressed?"
I giggled, which was a surprise to everyone but me. I tried to muffle it, but before long it exploded into full-blown guffaws.
Laura went from shivering and almost crying to wide-eyed surprise. "What is it? Other than me being naked in a big spoon."
I hee-hawed louder. "Oh, that's-that's part of it ... but these guys! Oh my God! They have no idea what we're going to do to them! I m-mean-they've been lurking in bushes-ready to jump us-except th-their victims-their v-victims are the queen of the vampires and-and the Antichrist! And I'm ... I'm so hungry!"
While our prom dates from hell exchanged puzzled glances, Laura let that sink in and started to laugh herself.
"Listen, you twats, you-"
"Pipe down, B-positive. I'll get to you in a minute."
Hungry was an understatement. I hadn't fed in three days. Three stressful, weird days. Hungry? Try starving. But, and hooray for the petty criminal thoughts of well-dressed Neanderthals, my entrees were here.
I took them, one by one. Normally Laura would have left or looked away-she didn't like vampires, and she sure didn't like watching me chow down. But tonight she just walked around my entrees and me. The other two were too scared to flee, not that they could have gotten past the Antichrist in the dark. So she prowled around and waited for me to finish, occasionally checking her watch.
Afterward, I was full and sleepy. And Laura had been able to slip into the navy jacket-the one that showed the blood the least-on our way to my car.
Chapter 19
How long has this been going on?"
Laura didn't answer. I couldn't blame her; it'd been a weird night. We were back at my place, thinking about making smoothies. I say thinking about because I was stuffed, and Laura didn't feel like hulling strawberries. The kitchen was a place we gravitated to even if we weren't hungry.
And the house was quiet, which was a mild miracle. Tina was pillaging somewhere-wait 'til I told her about my three-course meal of white-collar rapists-and Marc was using my half brother to troll for dates.
Yeah, I know. Ugh, right? Which I told him. But he remained unmoved, and unguilty.
"How else am I supposed to meet nice guys?" he'd asked. "When I'm not working, I'm running around town with the vampire queen. Or trying to prevent the Antichrist from taking over the world. Now, I've found a group for single parents who work odd hours. Tonight's mocktails-and-playdates night. I gotta have a prop. So hand him over-don't look at me like that. He'll be perfectly safe. I'm a doctor, and he's immune to anything weird."
I'd had my doubts at the time-not about Marc's babysitting skills, which were terrific. But we'd had weirder adventures spring up from even more innocuous events. I was getting sooo paranoid in my thirties.
Now, of course, I was thrilled the baby was out of the house, and would be all night. My mom was out of town, attending a Civil War convention in Virginia. Which was just as well-she disliked having her dead ex-husband's infant dumped in her lap.
As for Sinclair, I had no idea where he was-and didn't want to know. I wasn't up for another confrontation. Although I'm not sure confrontation was the right word, since most of the talking had been on my end. He almost couldn't be bothered to be in the argument with me. I'd never seen someone be distant and terrifying at the same time.
But fortunately-unfortunately, I meant; sorry, a minor slip, un, un, un!-unfortunately my sister needed my help. Marital woes would have to wait. I would quit wondering about everyone's convenient absences and be grateful for them instead.
"Laura? You said you'd been sick for a while. So, how long?"
"When I'm not sick, I dream. Sometimes both."
"Sorry?" I doubt I would have caught that, if not for vampire hearing. "You dream?"
"About my mother. About hell."
"When?"
"Mmmms prbbbl insll."
"Huh?"
"Almost every night."
I stared at her across the marble countertop. She'd started nibbling on her fingernails, when normally her hands were beautiful and her nails neatly trimmed and filed ... how many other new habits had she picked up? What else hadn't I noticed?
Even a year ago, I'd be ass deep in this and still oblivious to all the danger. But I never realized that all experience could do for me was assure me, every day, that however bad things were, they'd get worse.
Experience wasn't keeping me out of a jam. It was just making me scared and nervous. So what the hell was it good for?
"You dream about hell. Every night."
She spit out a hangnail, which I took as an affirmative.
"And now you're waking up inside sculptures. When you aren't using your secret devil power to speak every language on earth."
"Mmmm."
I couldn't believe I was going to do it. I couldn't believe I was even thinking it. But this stuff was way over my head. Shit, vampire stuff was way over my head. And I wasn't smart enough to think of another way to go. I mean, you could take that one to the bank, pretty much every time.
"I think ... I think we need to talk to your mother."
She sighed. "Yes."
"Now, before you freak out, just think about-what?"
"I agree. I think it's all we can do. I can't think of anything else, either."
Nuts. I was sort of hoping she'd send up a storm of shrill protests. Or hit me over the head until I blacked out.
"I think she can help you." Probably. "She can help both of us." Probably.
Question was: Would she?
The scarier question: Why would she?
I've already forgiven you that little bit of criminal assault, so it will all be behind us tomorrow. You need not fear to call on me.
Dammit!
"I'm not gonna lie. I don't like where this is going."
"It's good you didn't lie, then."
"Hilarious. But this has barely started and already I don't like the smell. I think it's gonna be one of those things that starts off mildly worrisome and turns into screaming, shrieking death for at least half a dozen people."
The Antichrist sighed. "I think you're right. Maybe you should have left me in the spoon and hoped for the best."
"No, no, no. I was glad to get out of the house. It was a pleasure. I needed some air. And to, uh, put more mileage on my car. So it was good that you called from a rapist's cell phone to tell me your ass cheeks were sticking to a giant spoon."
Laura laughed so hard she fell off of the bar stool in a tangle of long, graceful limbs, which made me feel better. I was pretty sure the hyuk-yuks were over for a while, so I was gonna take what I could.
"All right, it sounds like we're both on the same page. We'll go."
My sister looked relieved, which was an improvement over looking suicidal (or homicidal, come to think of it). "Right now?"
"Just a sec-let me go pack an overnight bag."
The Antichrist blinked. "Why?"
"Why? Laura, we're going to hell. Of our own free will. I can't think of a place where I'd need to pack a bag more."
"But-"
I was already off the bar stool and headed for the swinging door. "I'd bring a change of clothes to the gym, but not hell? Good God, Laura, what's the matter with you?"
"Many, many things." She was giving me the strangest look-probably because she hadn't thought of this stuff herself Well, I could throw in an extra pair of leggings for her. But only if she was nice! And didn't take over the world in a sinister rain of blood and fire.
Packing didn't take long. I grabbed my new Burberry bag, which had been a just-thinking-of-you gift from my husband last month. I hadn't even taken the tags off yet, which I now rectified. I then randomly grabbed things until I figured I had enough to overnight in hell. And would look stylish yet practical while doing same.
I loved the bag's screaming red color, practical size, and quilted pattern. Not to mention the nylon material-I tended to wave drinks about excitedly as I talked, and had soaked more than one purse by accident.
I wasn't nearly as picky about bags and purses as I was about shoes-shit, the shoe thing was enough of a drain on my finances-so getting used to really nice bags was a new thing for me.
As was, apparently, a husband who was quietly furious with me a lot. I'd have to face that music sooner or later, and I didn't dare put it off more than a day or two.
I'd have to find out what had gotten into Sinclair-or what had gotten out. Apologize. Swear to God never to swear to God again.
I should probably work on that apology a little.
I took a last look around our bedroom, which is when I saw it: a cream-colored number-10 envelope (sorry; years of secretarial training sometimes kicked in when I least expected ... I mean, a business-size envelope, the most common size) with my name slashed across the front in black ink.
Sinclair's handwriting.
Uh, no. I wasn't up for this tonight. Nope. Sinclair was either sorry or not sorry. Which meant I would then either be sorry or not sorry. Either way: no time for this right now.
I stuffed the envelope into my screaming-red bag and was as ready as I could ever be. I took another look around and realized I was stalling. Not too lame and cowardly.
Right! I was ready. Denizens of evil, look out: a former secretary was gonna kick your asses all over the Underworld.
And now: to hell! Which wasn't as cool as it sounded.