Undead and Uneasy

What did it mean? I wasn't a detective, God knew. And the people around me usually did the thinking. That was how I liked it. I liked that Tina and Sinclair dealt with most of the shit. I liked that another vampire looked after the other Fiends, that two other vampires looked after my nightclub, Scratch. Shit, Jessica had even hired someone to feed my cat. My time was spent reading, snacking, fucking, wedding planning, playing bartender in the kitchen with my friends, and occasionally vanquishing evil. . . again, with help.



The answering machine in the kitchen was blinking. I scowled at it, then pressed "Play."



"Hi, Betsy. Michael Wyndham. We're coming up empty. Completely cold trail. The Pack members in the area haven't seen either of them. We're still looking. Call me if you find anything."



"Hi, hon. It's Mom. The baby is doing fine. I thought you might want to know. Laura's here, if you need either of us. So. . . talk to you soon?"



My, my. Weren't those two getting thick as thieves?



"Hi, Betsy, it's Marc. Man, I hope you get this. Anyway, call me right away." He left a phone number-not his own cell phone-with an unfamiliar area code.



"Hello, Jessica. It's Don. Listen, I set up that new tax shelter for you, I just need you to sign some paperwork. I can come over to your place whenever you like. We can shelter a good seven figures, and as you say, you'd rather give it to charity than the government. Your wish is this CPA's command. Call me."



Ah, Don Freeman, the sexiest accountant on the planet. When he'd first come to the house (he was always bringing things for Jess to sign, and nobody expected a mega-millionaire to come to them), I'd mistaken him for a Minnesota Viking. Shoulders out to here.



"Betsy, why the hell haven't you called me back? It's Marc again. Listen, call me. I'm starting to worry."



He was starting to worry? He sounded fine, not dead at all. And not under duress. I leapt for the phone, played his first message back again, and punched in the number.



"Pirate's Cove Resort, Little Cayman."



"Uh, yeah. I'm looking for Dr. Marc Spangler? He left this number?"



"I think he's still scuba diving."



Scuba diving?



"Can you hold on, while I check?"



"Take your time," I managed through gritted teeth.



There was a clunk as someone put the phone down.



He was on vacation! Oh, I would kill him. I'd eat him alive and then cut him into a thousand tiny pieces and then set each piece on fire. Then I'd force the ashes to watch reruns of Survivor, Season 4. Then I'd-



"Hello?" Marc panted. "Betsy? Is that you?"



"Sorry to interrupt your scuba-ing," I said coldly.



"Oh, that was this morning. I've been hanging around the bar waiting for you to call back. Listen, I've been trying to reach you for days."



"Yes, I know! What's going on? Are you really in the Bahamas?"



"The Caymans," he corrected, "and yeah. But this is the getaway of all getaways. Cell phones are dicey, and so is their Internet connection. We just had I wicked bad storm come through here, which didn't help. Scuba diving's been for shit ever since."



"But what are you doing there?"



"Boning my brains out," he said, sounding way too cheerful. "You know David Ketterling? The cute new pediatrics fellow?"



I had a vague memory of Marc burbling about the new guy at the hospital, but had paid it no mind at the time, since Marc, as we all knew, had no life beyond. . . well, us.



"Well," he bubbled on, "we both had our four-day stretch at the same time, and his grandma owns this resort, so on the spur of the moment-"



"You left the country with a total stranger."



"It was more romantic in my head," he admitted.



"Marc, I've been worried to death!"



"I'm sorry, Betsy. I told you, it was spur of the moment. And I've been trying to call since we got here. David was the one who suggested we use the lodge landlines. I can't believe I didn't think of that three days ago."



"Guess you had other things on your mind."



"And in my mouth," he said cheerfully.



"Thanks for that grotesque little mental image."



"Homophobia rearing its ugly head?"



"Honey, if Jessica was telling me about Nick's body parts in her mouth, I'd have totally the same reaction."



"Hey, is she around? Let me talk to her. David's dad is a king shit oncologist in New York. He had a few ideas."



"Um. . ." The temptation to pour all my troubles over the phone line like smelly oil was almost too much. He could be back here this time tomorrow. I wouldn't be by myself. He was a doctor, he was smart, he was funny, we were good buds. He could help me. He would help me.



And the only thing it would cost him would be his first vacation in years. His first romantic getaway in five years.



I opened my mouth. Marc to the rescue!



My mouth wasn't paying attention to my brain, because what came out was, "She's out stocking up on tea and cream. I'll tell her about your new boy-toy, though."



"He's a man-toy, and don't you forget it, blondie. Listen, I'll be back on Sunday. How goeth the wedding plans?"



"Wha? Oh. Everything's fine. I found a dress, and of course Sinclair has about forty tuxes already." Two lies and one truth. "Listen, I'm glad you're okay. I was-I was worried."



"Oh, who'd do anything to me? When you'd give 'em the smackdown?"



Who indeed. But at least they couldn't get to you, Marc.



"So I'll see you in a couple of days, okay? Call me at this number if you need anything."



"Oh, please. Everything's fine. Have fun. Give what's-his-face a dry peck on the cheek from me."



"No romance in your soul," he teased. "None at all."



He hung up.



And then it was just me. Again.