Argh. She has a natural gift for hitting all of my buttons. Since when does a PhD in anything but medicine means you’re not a real doctor?
Incredibly, she was still babbling as Fred hurtled toward the stairs. “Okay, sure, you’re smarter than me and prettier—maybe a little prettier—but—”
“I am not prettier than you.”
“Quit it! I hate when pretty girls act like we don’t know we’re pretty. They don’t, is what I meant. When they act like they don’t know.”
Ah! These go down to the street, and Jonas has to be at the end of the street. “Absurd. You look like you fell off a Vogue runway. Can you handle a three-story fall?”
“Well, yeah, in the sense that it won’t kill me, but it’ll still sting like—shit!”
Fred threw her over the railing, grabbed the same railing, and vaulted over. As the street rushed up to them she heard, “You suuuuuuuuuuuuck!”
All the way down.
Fred landed hard and couldn’t keep her feet, but managed to roll with the impact. When she stood, her feet and ankles ached horribly but nothing was broken. She’d gotten more from her father than the tail—the strength and the dense bones—for which she was often annoyed but tonight was thankful.
“You are too pretty!” Betsy was flailing in garbage. “And that was a shitty thing to do to a guest!”
“Not my guest,” Fred muttered, looking for Jonas. “And once you get the garbage out of your hair, you’ll be pretty again.”
“That’s a lie and you know it.”
From around the corner, an aggrieved shriek: “You’re both hags! Shut up!”
“Wow.” Betsy had climbed to her feet and was brushing coffee grounds off her clothes. “He’s almost as bitchy as my zombie.”
“What?”
“My doctor, I meant. He gets shrill when he’s tired, too.”
“Your doctor zombie.” Fred sighed. So many questions. But maybe she should keep some to herself. At once she felt shame; proximity to the vampire queen was turning her into a mental and moral coward with all this I-don’t-want-to-know and keep-me-out-of-it nonsense. And even knowing that, understanding that, did not make her want to discuss zombies with the fanged blonde.
She shook off the thoughts and raised her voice. “Be right there, Jonas!” So he hadn’t been picked up by the baddies . . . that was good. He hadn’t sounded under duress, which was better—not in imminent danger of being shot or plummeting three stories. She assumed Madison was also all right—Jonas was, at heart, a gentleman, and wouldn’t leave a lady in distress if someone kneecapped him with a ball peen hammer. “Idiot.”
“Yeah, these bad guys . . . sooo rude. They could at least call first if they’re gonna show up and beat their chests and then let you go through them like a band saw through a hot dog.”
Heh. “I meant Madison. She’s the reason I’m—we’re all—in this mess. And for what? Because she doesn’t get enough attention at home? Christ.”
“Aw, come on.” Betsy was wobbling, then her steps became more sure. Fred had no idea how, but the blonde had managed to kick off her beautiful shoes during her shrieking plummet to the street, then find them again (in the dark—the closest street light was a block south) and slip them back on, and was now keeping pace as Fred hurried through the alley. “She’s just a kid. Just like you were once and just like I was once—Shit! These cobblestones are a bitch.”
“She’s a grown woman, she’s been the legal drinking age for years, and even if she wasn’t, I’m not her mother, and even if I was, she’s a grown woman.”
“I need to meet her mother,” Betsy said in the tone of someone making a mental to-do list.
“Yeah, and Madison’s mom, frankly, should be the one getting jumped in Faneuil Hall and mind-raped in the Aquarium.”
“And my husband should still be sane and every member of the Kardashian family should be indicted, arrested, and executed. It’s not a perfect world. She’s your responsibility, and bitching about it won’t help.”
“She’s not!”
“Come on.” Fred’s eyes had quickly adjusted to the dark—another genetic gift from the Folk, as it was pretty damned dark at the bottom of the ocean. So she could see Betsy’s wry expression, and was startled at how pale she was—even for her. “She’s in this mess because she looks up to you.”
“She’s in this mess,” Fred said firmly, “because she’s an idiot.”
Betsy was getting still paler. Fred had a sudden suspicion that she was one of those people who went white when they were pissed. If she’s dead—undead—how does her blood even circulate? When she’s pale does it mean she’s mad or hungry or what? I’ve killed at least one man, maimed two others, and am now jogging down a dark alley with a hungry vampire I might be pissing off. I have a genius for getting into these situations.
“How often do you need to fe—”
Betsy cut her off. “Again: you’ve got to help her fix it. You. Not Jonas and not her mom—though I think she could have come to town in addition to asking me to come, but that’s a chat for another night. No matter how much they annoy you, no matter how big a pain in your ass they are, you’re in it, Fred.”
“They?”
“Sure.”
“Oh ho. It’s like that?”
The vampire made a gesture; half shrug, half frustration. “Do you think I came back from the dead overjoyed to discover I was responsible for thousands and thousands of people, whether they were awful and needed to be stopped, or victimized and needed my help? Or just minding their own business and sucking on stray cats and not bothering anybody? Come on. God’s got a wicked sense of humor, putting me in charge. But I’ll tell you what I learned, Fred; what I’m still learning. Bitching and moaning about it just makes everything take longer.” She paused. “If you meet my husband, never tell him I said that.”
Fred wasn’t moved to laugh. If anything, she wanted to cry. “I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t ask for any of this!”
The queen’s eyes went wide. “You think that’s relevant? That you didn’t ask for this? Christ, it’s the least relevant thing ever! It doesn’t matter that you don’t want it and it doesn’t matter that you don’t deserve it and it doesn’t matter that you don’t have the time or the authority or the willpower; you have to fix this.” Suddenly realizing she’d been almost screaming, Betsy cleared her throat and walked faster.
Fred hurried to keep pace. “Is it possible you’re projecting on me, just a little?”
“Oh, sure,” she admitted. “Also, I’m a flaming hypocrite.”
They trotted in silence for a few seconds. “They’re really counting on me to get them through this, aren’t they?”
“Yep.”
“Why? I’m not—look at me! When I don’t have a tail, I’m not special. Frankly, now that the Folk have outed themselves and the world knows there are millions of people with tails, I’m not special all over again. I—I kind of liked that.” Ironic: Madison only wanted to be seen. Fred wanted anything but to be seen.
Betsy shrugged. “The people around you would disagree. I’ve been telling the ones around me that I’m the poster child for Ordinary Citizens Who Happen to Be Dead, but they won’t listen. I know we should be glad they see us as heroes, but I find it scary, sometimes.”
“Scary,” Fred said, “is the exact right word.”
“Uncanny, right? No matter how much I fuck up, the people who love me see me as important and competent and non-fuckup-ey. It’s so weird and sad.”
Fred snorted a laugh through her nose; she couldn’t help it. Then they rounded the last corner and found Jonas and Madison in the custody of four more Polo Shirt Gangsters.
“Oh, look at this,” Betsy said, trying to comb something black and viscous out of her hair with her fingers. “It’s a whole rainbow of bad guys. The Skittles Gang.”
“The prof advises police and ambulance are rolling,” Green Shirt said, putting his phone back on his belt.
“Those are the magic words. Let’s go,” Red Shirt replied.
“What about our guys?” Other Red Shirt said.
“Fuck ’em. They were warned about the hybrid; if they were dumb enough to jump her without neutralizing her from a distance, they deserve all the months of traction.”
“And also, the morgue,” Fred said demurely. She’d said it to gauge their reactions, and was rattled when none of the Skittles Boys so much as made a sad face. Great. Not just soldiers; committed men who value the team as a whole, not the individuals in the team. Maybe we’ll really, really luck out and they’ll be religious fanatics as well!
“Are you okay?” Fred murmured to Jonas, who had the beginnings of a black eye.
“Sure. There were five of them.”
“That’s my boy.”
“And you or Betsy or I should definitely kill both Red Shirts,” he added darkly, glaring at both Red Shirts. “To let them live is spitting in the face of decades of sci-fi television fantasy tradition.”
“Aw, man. Are you sure you’re straight and happily in love with a live woman?” Betsy asked. “Because, seriously, you would love my zombie friend.”
“Tempting,” Jonas commented with a wry look at Fred, “but I’ll pass.”
“Not that I’m complaining, because I’m glad you’re both alive, but why didn’t you . . . uh . . .” Signal there were bad guys around? Or run? Or scream for help so we wouldn’t have just blundered right into you? Or something?
Through long acquaintance, Jonas knew what she was truly asking and shook his head. “You wanna go where they wanna take us, Fred, and right now. Trust me.”