There
.
“No!” she screamed. “Oh, no, don’t, don’t, don’t come in, don’t you dare come in!”
But he did dare.
Forty-nine
“I don’t know who Rachael thinks she’s kidding with all this meet-me-all-the-way-across-town-in-half-an-hour bullshit,” Edward informed the king of the vampires. “It’s so obvious she’s going to go to her place to either look for the chamber lady, or is setting up a meeting so the chamber lady comes to the hobbit hole where all will be revealed . . . something stupid and brave and really illogical.”
Eric Sinclair, beloved of Betsy and king of the undead, grinned. Edward had to make an actual, conscious effort not to flinch from that look. “Brave and really illogical would accurately describe Her Majesty.”
“And a lover of all things smoothie.”
The king chuckled, a sound that was somehow light and dark at the same time. “Yes. That, too.”
“Thanks for helping me split them up.”
“Not at all. I prefer my queen to be half a city away from possible felony assault. And she takes justifiable pride in knowing she can go out into the world earlier in the day than I can. So it was a fine thing, letting her leave first.”
He’d
thought
that was kind of weird but had decided not to say anything yet. But yeah,
Betsy
could go outside while it was still light out.
Sinclair
couldn’t. He had to wait until it was almost full dark, like now.
Edward pointed at his chest as they rolled silently into the driveway for the hobbit hole. “Knew it. Totally called it. You asked Betsy and Tina and Beriberi to go where you’re pretty sure the bad guy
isn’t
.”
“It was not a question of pretty sure.”
“No?”
“No. The killer is there right now.”
“Wait, you knew she’d be at her office downtown?”
Sinclair just looked at him. Edward almost heard the
click
as he got it: “You
knew
she’d be here, laying here for Rachael in her very own hobbit hole! Oooh, your wife’s gonna be soooo pissed at you!”
“I am aware, Edward.”
“You’ll be on Sofa Sentry for months!”
“I am aware, Edward.”
“All right, sheesh, calm down. So what’s the plan?”
“You stay here while I suavely save the day.”
“Yes, and here on Planet Real Life, what’s the plan?”
But then things got unpleasant really, really fast, because King Sinclair said, “Gun.” (Everybody called him Sinclair, even his wife!) And all Edward could do was run in after him and hope he was somehow in time or, barring that, that he could somehow help.
As it turned out, no one needed his help.
The king of the vampires had rushed in fast enough to knock the gun away without doing any real damage to a frowsy, middle-aged woman in an orange T-shirt. But Orange T-shirt wasn’t inclined to meekly surrender, because she was going for Rachael.
And Rachael! Rachael had a look of fury on her face that Edward had never seen on anyone, ever. He had time for a confused thought/prayer (
please don’t let me be dumb enough to ever make her that mad
)
.
Then Rachael was reaching for Orange T-shirt, and Orange T-shirt was reaching for Rachael with just as much hatred and intensity on her face, and for a second everything was all sharp teeth and razor-sharp nails and blurred limbs and then Rachael . . . Rachael grabbed her. Dragged her. She—
Edward had to think about it and, though it happened right in front of him, he didn’t have senses that had evolved in a way for him to take in every point of action. So after he had thought about it for a while in his careful, planning, tool-making mind, he realized what he had seen.
Orange T-shirt, reaching. Rachael, also reaching . . . and grabbing, and seizing, and hauling the other woman hard and fast, dragging her across the desk and then lifting her in the air and slamming her back down, only she slammed the woman’s head on the edge of the desk; Rachel shoved her down so hard and so fast her neck broke instantly with a crack Edward would hear, on and off, in nightmares for the rest of his life.
Rachael had broken the woman’s neck on the edge of the desk, and done such a thorough job that when the woman’s ass hit the carpet, she was already dead.
“Um . . . look out?” he managed. The vampire king was holding the murder weapon the way he’d hold a dead garter snake.
Better remember to tell him to wipe his fingerprints off. Maybe he’s got his own secret police to worry about stuff like that.
“We’re here to save you?”
“Oh, my, now look at this,” the king said mildly, but he was giving Rachael a sharp look, one with more than a little approval. “
That
was unexpected.”
“It was my right.” Rachael was breathing hard. Edward realized the woman was actually shaking. “She defiled my den, where my mate sleeps. It was my right. She defiled our den. Where he
sleeps.
It was my right, Edward. It was my right.”
“Sure it was, Rache. I know. She had a lot of nerve, huh? It’s all right.”
Trembling, a Rachael he had never seen before crept into his arms. She was shaking so hard he had a little trouble holding her at first. “If she would bring it when you weren’t here, she’d bring it when you
were
.” Rachael made a small sound, like a dry sob. “Oh, Edward, what if you’d been here when she brought that thing?”
“Never happen, not with Rachael Velveeta on the case. Listen, when you’re done having your nervous breakdown, can I have mine? Because I just watched you kill someone in a really awesome way, and although it’s a good thing, I think, it’s also freaking me out.”
“Okay, but I get to go first.”
“Naturally.”
“And my turn’s not done yet. Please hold me and make those dumb soothing noises like you do.”
He was happy to comply. Edward assumed that was some kind of Pack rule of thumb, the being-safe-while-sleeping concept. He was slowly beginning to understand that Rachael hadn’t killed Orange T-shirt in the heat of battle, or even in the cold glow of vengeance. She’d killed Orange T-shirt out of fear for
his
safety. She’d killed Orange T-shirt to protect him, the same as she would have for the kids they would someday have.
He supposed he should have been scared and worried, but he was too filled with pride, and his pride and his love were too big for any other emotion right now.
Being able to sleep soundly while not getting shot at must be a really big deal to the Pack,
he decided. He also decided that it was an excellent rule for him, too. He didn’t have to ask if Rachael was on board.
“Well, well.”
Edward had forgotten all about the vampire king, who had seen everything but had very little to say, which Edward was starting to think was a standard thing with this guy. “This will be interesting. I very much like interesting.” King Sinclair smiled and, in the gloom, white teeth flashed. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
Fifty
“Is your husband still—”
“On Sofa Sentry? He told me your Edward called it that. I love it. It’s perfect. And yeah, bet your ass he is.”
Your Edward.
Rachael liked the sound of that. Lots. She lifted a hand to wave at Call Me Jim, who had just now come onto the porch. Edward was stretched out on the sofa, his head in her lap, reading the few clippings that covered the murders, which, to the public, had stopped as mysteriously and seemingly motive-free as they had begun. Given that Cain had been walking and talking (and lying, and killing) just a couple hours ago made this peaceful scene sort of reek unreality. But she wasn’t going to question it.
“Listen, Betsy, I just have to know—”
“It couldn’t wait for two hours from now?”
“If I have to suck down one more smoothie I’m going to vomit raspberries for the better part of the week. Enough with the smoothies. You will not see me during Smoothie Time tonight. What I’ve been wondering about is that damned newsletter.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. This all started because you put your address in a newsletter, which you then mailed to strangers all over the country.”
The queen laughed. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“I’d hoped I was making it sound like a thing I didn’t understand.”
“Yeah, I get that. You know I haven’t been the queen very long, right?”
“I might have heard a few things.”
“Mmmm. The CliffsNotes version is, I had to indirectly kill the last idiot who thought he was royalty of the undead. Which sent up a
huge
red flag to pretty much anyone worried about a vitamin D deficiency. There’s a new queen in town, watch out! Holy shit, what are we gonna do? Like that, right?
“My husband wanted to hide in plain sight, behind a . . . what weirdo way did he describe—oh! Hide behind a shield of fear and intimidation. Like when Walmart brings out the lawyers. That’s what he wanted to do, and I came to see the sense of it.
“Because let’s face it . . . once I created a vacancy and immediately (yet reluctantly) filled it, someone was always going to be coming after me. Fucking
always.
It was totally inevitable. We could have bet our lives on it. We
did
bet our lives on it, come to think of it. So, knowing that, accepting that, we put our contact info right out there. There was nothing we could have done to prevent someone from gunning for us. But we could do plenty about how the regime change was perceived. So! A newsletter. Hi, I’m Betsy, glad to be part of the team, looking forward to meeting you, come on by anytime, blahblah-blah.”
“Sending the message that you in your new role are so powerful, you don’t care if other vampires can find you.” Rachael had to admire the audacity. If someone killed her cousin to run the Pack, and made a point of being extremely findable afterward, she knew she would instantly rethink strategy. She would assume the new guy
wanted
to be found, was making a point of it, which made the whole thing smell like a trap. “In fact, you
want
other vampires to find you. To pay homage or just acknowledge your sovereignty and . . . and . . . what do they do?”
“Drop off bags of blood oranges.” The queen sighed. “Regular oranges symbolize the death of Christ. Blood oranges symbolize the rise of the new ruler, the one who rules after Christ and will for thousands of years. Which, um, is me.”
“Okay.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“Okay.”
“Because first of all, gross,
blood
oranges? What scary-ass universe did
those
come from? And second, lame. And third, lame. But! That’s the newsletter story. And hey! I never did get those shoes back from you.”
“Sorry, I was busy with my first-ever kill.”
“Oh, jeez, Roberta!”
“Rachael.”
It’s uncanny how the woman is so bad at names.
“Yeah, I know, I was just testing you. How long are you gonna flog that as an excuse? ‘Boo-hoo, I had to shed Pack blood in defense of my den, yadda-yadda.’ You’re lucky you broke her neck, because if she’d bled on those shoes, you and I would be having a very different conversation right now. You know, I got those at a sample sale? And normally I don’t like sample sales, because I think it sets up an unfair advantage . . .”
This woman is either brilliant or deranged. And either way, she’s got good people, which for a leader is more than half the battle.
Brilliant.
“—like anyone could just pop into the store and buy them straight off the rack like that! ‘No way,’ I said. You can’t—”
No. Deranged.
“—get outta town with that shit! Of course, he got all kinds of pissy when I knocked him off the roof. He only fell six stories and the parking ramp broke his fall, so I don’t—”
No. Brilliant.
Fifty-one
“Wait, wait, wait. She went crazy? Mrs. Cain just up and went bonzo nutso and arranged for someone to start killing random strangers and that’s it? That’s the explanation? Because that sucks, Rache. Bad enough it’s about
audits.
” Edward turned to Nick Berry. “You believe that? Audits. I’m an accountant, and I still almost don’t believe it.”
“Almost?”
“Mmmmm . . . audits can be pretty nasty. But still . . . man, have some perspective!”
She nodded. “I know, honey. When you put innocent lives up against cold numbers, it doesn’t seem just wasteful. Sinful, if you’ll pardon an old-fashioned reference.”
“A classic,” Detective Berry said. When told of Rachael’s smoothie boycott, the laid-back cop had taken a stroll over to the hobbit hole to tie up the loose ends he’d been mulling over.