Undead and Unpopular (12 page)

"Nice to see you again, Dr. Spangler," she said, since I wasn't reintroducing her to anybody.

"Hi, uh—sorry, I—"

"Marjorie."

"Right." He'd been heads together with Jessica until a few seconds ago, but now he was looking downright flustered. Marjorie had that effect on humans. She could snap her fingers and Marc or Jess would have obediently opened a vein. "Nice to see you again."

"Thank you."

A short silence followed while Marjorie waited for us to dismiss the peons.

"So," I said before Eric could speak, because he actually
would
have dismissed the peons, "what brings you to Summit Avenue?"

"This," she said, whipping out—a gun! A knife! A brick!

No, my nerves were just a little overwrought. It was—

Tina frowned, causing a neat wrinkle to form between her eyes. It made her look positively ancient—twenty-five instead of her usual eighteen. "That's a book catalog."

"Correct."

"Thank all that is holy and unholy," I proclaimed with even less patience than usual, "that you didn't waste a second getting this over here! Why, we've been combing this entire mansion, top to bottom, for a book catalog. Our need has never been more dire."

"Specifically," Marjorie said, slapping it down on the table, "it's the Berkley Fall catalog for this year."

Sinclair closed his eyes.

"Yes, well that is the Holy Grail of book catalogs," I said, still walking the line between playing along and suggesting to this woman that she leave before my head exploded.

Sinclair didn't say anything, but his grim look and slight shake of the head suggested he knew where this was going.

I didn't. Marjorie waited for me to catch on. I quietly trusted she had packed a lunch. Finally, she said, "Page forty-seven."

Nobody moved. Apparently she was talking to me. I picked up the slick catalog and thumbed to the appropriate page. And nearly dropped it like it had turned into a rattler. "Okay, I can see why you might think this is…"

"A catastrophe?" she said sharply.

"… bad. A little bit bad."

Undead and Unwed by Anonymous
was splashed across a two-page spread.
Hilarious new take on the vampire genre
! was printed across the bottom, along with other critical comments ("abrupt transitions make for a rollicking ride all the same" and "low on plot but high on fun!").

There was also a quick paragraph: "Playing along with the 'true autobiography' approach, the author poses the clever conceit of suggesting herself queen of the mythical undead. One of the fall's brightest!"

"Somebody wrote a book about you?" Jessica asked, staring at the catalog spread. "Wow!"

"Not wow. The opposite of wow."
What would that be
, I asked myself wildly.
It's not like you can just spell it backward and hope that works. Maybe invert it
—
owo? As in, "owo is me"
?

"Majesties. I don't question your judgment—"

"But you're going to."

Marjorie looked as anxious as I'd ever seen her. "How could you let this happen?"

"It was—"
A favor for a friend
, I started to say, but Sinclair stepped on that in a hurry.

"Can the book be pulled?"

"It's not
our
book," she pointed out, sounding pissed. "You may as well ask if the new Stephen King can be pulled—we had nothing to do with it."

"
Can
the new Stephen King be pulled?" Marc joked. He was an "old-school" King snob—nothing good since
Pet Sematary
, he once claimed. I kept buying them, though. Letting go of King was like letting go of your favorite greasy spoon hangout. You don't. They're still open, so you keep going, out of pure love and memory of the good old days.

I looked at the spread again. Dark blue cover, silver lettering. "The first true tale from the undead trenches." Sure.

I knew who had written it: Jon Delk, formerly of the vampire-hunting Blade Warriors, current hot author. Not that he knew it—thanks to a bit of quick memory wiping.

Of course, the source
behind
the author had been me.

A few months ago, Jon had come by to talk me out of marrying Sinclair. A college student by day and ferocious vampire hunter by night, he'd sworn off the stake a few months ago. Meeting me had made him see a whole new side to vampires, I gathered. These days he and the rest of his little Cub Scout den from hell asked questions first and staked later.

Grateful for Delk's change of heart, I'd told him my story, which he used for a college paper. Then the manuscript disappeared, and Sinclair made Jon forget he'd written it. Problem solved. Right?

A fresh new take on the vampire tale from someone who's actually been there
, according to
Publishers Weekly
.

"Jon's gonna be pissed," I said, shaking my head.

"Only if we tell him."

"Of course we're gonna tell him! We can't not tell him. That would be—"

"The feelings of the infant who wrote this are the least of your problems," Marjorie pointed out sharply. "I can assure you, the vampire community will not be happy about this. We have spent a millennium in hiding; you've been in power for about a year, and now—"

"
Charming anti-Anne Rice tale from a vampire with real world problems
!" Marc read helpfully.

"We need to deal with this now," Sinclair said quickly. "If we cannot stop the book's publication—"

"What's the spin?" I asked.

"Do you even need any?" Jessica asked. She looked a little like a cornered mouse when we all stared at her, then spoke up again. "Nobody's going to think there are
really
vampires running around. I mean, look at this ad. If you were reading it, would your first thought be,
oh my gosh, this is real, cover the kids in garlic and sprinkle the doorstep with holy water
? No way. It's obvious that it's a fiction book pretending to be nonfiction."

"Except," Marc said, "it's nonfiction pretending to be fiction."

"Right, but what live human being—other than the very few of us who already know—will realize that? Of course, if you try to get the book pulled, that really
will
get people interested. Who's trying to stop this book? Why? Are they a satanic cult? Do they worship vampire mythology?" She paused for dramatic effect. "Then: why do they act like vampires? Do they really think they are? And wow, why don't any of them have suntans?"

Marjorie leaned forward and whispered in Sinclair's ear. He nodded.

"What? What was that? Don't keep secrets. Are you keeping secrets? Marjorie, don't you know the whole 'share it with the class' rule?" I said.

"I was only asking," she said, "if your friend knew she was ill, and I was speaking privately because it was off the topic, and I didn't wish you to think I wasn't paying attention."

"Thanks, but I did know," Jessica said. She even smiled. Marjorie didn't, and I realized Jessica had made a classic mistake where vampires were concerned. Marjorie may have sniffed out Jessica's cancer, but she didn't give a shit if this specific blood-sheep ever recovered. She was just curious about Eric's feeding habits.

"Getting back to business," Tina said. "I think Jessica makes an excellent point. Trying to restrain a book only increases its impact."

"Very well," Marjorie said. "I only wished to bring this to your attention. What you do with this information is entirely up to you."

"Somebody better bring it to
Jon's
attention," I muttered, closing the catalog and trying to hand it back.

She gave me a chilly smile. "No, thank you, Majesty. I have plenty of copies."

"Well, thanks for bringing that extra special bit of fun into our lives," I said back, with equal warmth. Which was to say, with no warmth.

"Any excuse to spend extra time with Your Majesty."

"I'll see you out," Tina said, rising and gesturing to the door.

"Thank you," Sinclair said politely, staring down at the catalog with a thin twist of his mouth, "for stopping by."

"Yeah, thanks loads."

"Majesties. Dr. Spangler. Miss." And off she went, ready to spread more joy to other vampire households.

"There is a book about you?" Alonzo asked, his dark Spanish eyes aglow.

More pop-ins! Oh, wait. It was possible Tina had mentioned the Europeans had scheduled another meeting. At least we were in one of the parlors this time, instead of being ambushed in the kitchen by bitchy librarians. In fact, this was my favorite parlor (who knew I'd ever live in a house where I'd have a favorite parlor?), with the cheerful candy-striped wallpaper and blond wood furniture. Big east-facing windows let in tons of natural light (I assumed), and the room was heated by a gorgeous, midnight blue ceramic stove in the corner.

I was beginning to feel like I was spending half my (new) life in parlors. Thank heavens we had four, or I would get bored with the wallpaper. Now the idea of opulent mansions suddenly made sense.

"Really and truly," I answered Alonzo. "Look: we only told you guys so you wouldn't freak out if you, you know, happened to be in Barnes and Noble looking for some light reading before you iced the girl at the coffee counter."

"I appreciate the genuine concern in your otherwise needlessly provocative statement," Alonzo said. He shot his cuffs and looked at his watch, a big chunky silver thing that looked like it weighed down his wrist. He did it so often I assumed it was some sort of tic.