Undead and Unpopular

Chapter 6

"So I'm meeting Dr. Sophie here to try and talk this whole thing out." I took a sip of my daiquiri. "What. A disaster."
It was the next evening; my sister Laura Goodman and I were having drinks at my nightclub, Scratch. It was finally running in the black, which had taken some doing, believe me. Vampire nightclubs were awful-blood-drinking, rapacious murder, disco. I had literally killed to get the clientele to behave.
At least I had a little money left at the end of each month now-I didn't need it, but every girl likes to have a little independent income of her own.
Laura nodded sympathetically. A real bear for sympathy, was Laura. She was a precious-looking lanky blonde with sky blue eyes and a flawless complexion. Long lashes shadowed her eyes and her pretty mouth was turned down in a frown as she considered my problem. She smelled, as she always did, like sugar cookies. She used vanilla extract as perfume. It was an idea I was toying with myself. Not vanilla, but something else out of the pantry. Lemon zest? Paprika?
Laura was my half sister by my father. Her other parent was the Devil. Yes, I do mean that literally. Long story. She was a sweet-looking cutie-pie with a lethal left hook and a murderous temper. The beast only showed about one time in a hundred; but when it did, enemies died.
"She's coming here tonight?"
"Yeah." I checked my watch. "Any minute. And what the hell am I going to say to her?"
As my eyes wandered around the bar, I noticed all of the vampires in here with us looked tense. Like I cared. I had bigger problems, and if vampires came to the Queen's club because they were too scared not to, it was a nice damn change.
Of course, they might be afraid of Laura-she'd killed a number of them a couple of months ago. In this very nightclub-why, right over there. She was quite good at it.
I guess that sounded cold, and I didn't mean to be. I tried to treat vampires like everybody else. I really did. They wouldn't let me. It was just-why did so many of them have to be such unrepentant murderous assholes?
Case in point: Alonzo. He didn't even remember killing Sophie at first. Bad enough to be murdered, but to have your killer be so thoughtless and casual about it?
"I'm sure you'll think of something," Laura said, which was nice, if totally unhelpful. "Do you want me to leave?"
"Well, it's just that this is, uh, Sophie's private business. I just wanted to explain why we couldn't hang together tonight, even though we made plans."
"That's all right," she said at once. "I'll go to the evening service instead."
I finished my drink. "Back at church again?" Thank goodness. Her attendance had been off since I first met her, and I was starting to think I was a really shitty influence. Although, as Jessica pointed out, Laura could have a lot worse habits than occasionally skipping the nine o'clock service. Freebasing cocaine was the example she'd used.
Laura looked hurt. "I only missed a few times."
"Right, right. Honey, I'm in no position to judge." I couldn't remember the last time I'd attended church services, although nothing about my vampire-ness prevented me from doing so now. Crosses, holy water, Christmas trees-none of that stuff could hurt me. "I was just. You know. Commenting."
"Well, I'd better go before your friend gets here." She rose, bent, kissed me carelessly on the cheek. "We'll reschedule, yes?"
"You bet. Say hi to your folks for me."
"I will. Say hi to my-to your folks, too." Oh, sure. My stepmother, who'd given birth to Laura while possessed by the devil and then callously dumped her in a hospital waiting room, and my father, who had no clue Laura existed. I'd get right on that. Then I'd cure cancer and give all my shoes to charity. I watched her go. I wasn't the only one. Clearing my throat loudly enough to be heard, I glared at the guys scoping my sister's ass until they all went back to their drinks. Sure, the package was nice, but it was the inside that concerned me. Not only was Laura the Devil's daughter, she was prophesied to take over the world. Her way of rebelling against her mother was to be sweet, and not take over the world. Which was a good thing.
But we all wondered if-and when-she'd crack under the pressure.
As she marched out, Sophie marched in, ignoring the surly hostess and zooming in on my table like a Scud missile. She stood over me with her arms crossed and said, "Is he dead yet?"
"I forgot how you take your coffee," I replied, not terribly surprised. I mean, after last night, I'd had an idea how our little meeting would go. "Besides, you could probably use a drink."
She plunked down in the seat next to me. "I fed earlier," she said absently. "Liam insisted."
"I meant like a martini or something."
"In fact," she went on like I hadn't spoken, which was very unlike her-she was usually the soul of French courtesy, "I had to persuade him to let me come here alone. He may have followed me anyway. He-he is most cross. As am I."
"Honey, I was there. I know you're pissed. And I feel shitty about it. I really, really do. I'm open to options. What can we do?"
"Hand me his head."
"See, that's just not helpful. You've got to work with me, Sophie."
She didn't smile. "With all respect, Majesty, if you are unable-or unwilling-to assist me, then I see no point to this meeting."
"The point is, I'm upset that you're upset and I wanted to talk to you about it. Come on, we'll figure out a compromise."
"Majesty." She speared me with her gaze. "There can be no compromise."
I made listless water circles on the table with my glass. "That's the spirit."
"I am not... blind to your position. But you must understand mine. He foully murdered me and must not get away with it."
"Well if you, uh, think about it, if he hadn't killed you, you never would have come to America or met Liam or any of that stuff. Made a new life."
"I had to make a new life," she said as if speaking to a child-a mean, dumb child-"because he stole my old one."
"Yup, yup, I hear you."
"I understand your hands may be tied politically." She smiled thinly. "I am, after all, French."
I laughed.
"But understand me: if you cannot act, I will."
"See, uh." I picked up my empty glass, fiddled with it, put it down. "You, uh, can't do that. I mean, I forbid it. Now, I know it-"
I was talking to air. She had gotten up and zoomed to the door so quickly I couldn't track. Vampires sometimes seemed all legs to me-it was like they could take one step and be across the room.
"Hey, you can't do that!" I yelled after her. "I've given you an order! I've decreed! You can't ignore a decree! You'll cause all kinds of trouble! Sophie! I know you can still-what are you looking at?"
The vampire at the next table, a skinny blond fellow with a mustache right out of the 1970s, was unabashedly staring. "I like your shoes," he practically stammered.
Mollified, I waved the approaching hostess away.
Guy needed a shave, but he had taste. I was wearing my usual spring outfit of tan capris, a white silk T-shirt, and a wool blazer, but I was shod in truly spectacular tan suede Constança Basto slingbacks. Five hundred forty-nine dollars, retail. An early birthday gift from me to me. Sinclair, that sneak-it had to be him-kept tucking hundred-dollar bills into the toes of my pumps, and I had quite the Shoe Fund by now.
I crossed my legs and pointed my toe, an old trick that called attention to my (if I do say so myself-there were some advantages to being a six-foot-tall dork) good legs. "Thanks," I said.
"I have something for you," Nineteen Seventies said, reaching under the table, and coming back up with-ugh-a muzzled toy poodle. It was wriggling like a worm on a hot sidewalk and making little burbling noises around the muzzle.
"Get that away from me," I almost yelled. I wasn't a dog person. I especially wasn't a fan of dogs that only weighed as much as a well-fed lab rat.
Nineteen Seventies enfolded the curly, trembling creature into his bony arms. "I thought you liked dogs," he said, sounding wounded.
"They like me," I retorted. Another unholy power-dogs followed me everywhere, slobbering and yelping. Cats ignored me. (Cats ignore everybody, even the undead. There's something Egyptian in all of that.) "I don't like them. Will you put that thing back in your pocket?"
"Sorry. I thought-I mean, I came here with a boon because-"
"A boon? Like a present? I don't want any presents. Or boon. Consider me boonless. She Without Boon. And if I did want a boon-which I don't-I'd rather have some Jimmy Choos."
He nodded to someone else at the bar, a short brunette with disturbingly rosy cheeks, and she rose, came over, got Sir Yaps a Lot, and discreetly vanished into a back room somewhere.
"Jeepers," Nineteen Seventies said. "I guess I messed it up all the way around."
"Messed what up?"
"Well..." He stroked his mustache, a loathsome habit I had no intention of sticking around long enough to break him of. "Everybody says that if I'm in town, this is the place I have to come. And that it's best to, you know, spend a lot of money here and all that."
"Oh." Who was "everybody"? The all-vampire newsletter one of the local undead librarians put out? Street gossip? My mother? What? "Well..."
This was my chance to say, don't sweat it, my good man. I'm just an ordinary gal, not a dictator-for-life asshole like Nostro was. You don't have to do anything-just try to keep your nose clean. You certainly don't have to come to my bar. But thanks anyway.
"Drink up," is what I did say, and sure, I felt a little crummy about it, but hey, everybody's got to make a living.