Undead and Unpopular

"Laura, I'm so sorry to do this to you again."



"Betsy, it's fine. I'm delighted to help out." She nuzzled the baby. "And delighted ooo see ooo again! Is ooo my best wittle boy? Is ooo?"



"Really, really sorry. But I had plans for tonight and frankly, if I don't do this now, I'll never psych myself up to do it again."



She had all the baby crap, was hauling it (and BabyJon) easily into the front hall. "Betsy, will you stop? It's my pleasure to help out. You'll let his mom know?"



"Yeah, well, she's not gonna be happy when she finds out I shirked BabyJon on you. Just remind her not to shoot the messenger."



Laura laughed, shaking her blond hair away from her face. "Goodness! I'm sure she'll be fine. You know, Betsy, Mrs. Taylor isn't nearly as bad as you-"



Okay, if I had to get the "give your stepmother a chance" lecture from someone who hadn't grown up with her, I was going to pop a blood vessel. "Yeah, well, thanks, I owe you, bye!" I gave her a helpful shove.



I closed the big front door and leaned on it. Right. BabyJon given the bootie: check. Sinclair off with Tina somewhere: check. No pop-ins that I knew of: check. Marc at work: check. Toni and Garrett prowling around outside, him to eat and her for kicks: check (I made a mental note to make sure those two were only fucking with bad guys). Cathie-the-ghost nowhere in evidence: check.



Jessica knitting in her room: check.



She had a largish room on the second floor, the one with the blue and gold wallpaper and all the trim and old furniture in blond wood, as if the Scandinavian carpenters who built this mansion so long ago were thinking of their wives' hair when they designed and built it.



I rapped on the half-closed door and went in at her, "C'mon in."



Crocheting in bed was a new thing. Usually she brought her yarn bag into the kitchen with us, or went into the basement with Garrett, or took it to a craft class. But Marc had explained that she got tired earlier, and took longer to get going when she got up.



"Got a minute?" I asked.



"Uh-huh."



"I can't tell where the one on the bed is, and the one you're working on starts," I joked. It was true, though: she was lying on a navy crocheted coverlet, and crocheting another one, this one red.



"Yeah, well, you're an idiot." She grinned.



"Uh-huh." I barely heard the insult. I started to sit on the bed, then got up and sort of prowled around the foot of it for a moment. "Listen, Jess, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. I mean, a lot."



"Do you need some Advil?"



"This is serious!" I almost shouted at her. "Listen-I can't believe I'm even talking to you about this-"



"No," she said.



"What?"



"No. You can't bite me. You can't turn me into a vampire. I won't allow it."



My oft-rehearsed speech disappeared in a whirl of relief and indignation. "What? How did you know? Oh, those big-mouthed idiots!"



"Yes, that's how I'd describe Tina and Sinclair. Come on, Betsy. Nobody had to tell me. It was so obvious-not only are you having private conversations with experienced vampires, but frankly, every time you look at me it's like a dog looking at a raw steak."



"Huh."



"Yeah."



"Listen, I'm sorry about the looks, but I've done some research, and the risks-"



"Are a lot higher if you bite me, than if I treat my cancer."



I opened my mouth.



"Because pretty it up how you want, you're still killing me, right?"



I closed my mouth and she went on, in a nice but totally firm way. "Even if I come back after. And if I do come back after, there's no guarantee I'll be me, right? In fact, it sounds like for at least the first few years, I'll be a mindless blood-sucking automaton. No thank you."



"Anything sounds bad when you put 'mindless' and 'sucking' in front of it." I flopped down on the end of her bed. "Jeez, days I've been working up to this, grilling everybody, screwing up the courage to talk to you about it, and you're all, 'yeah, I knew what you were going to say, and by the way, no.' "



"It's not my fault it's pathetically easy to read your minuscule mind."



I gave her a look. "I guess this is the part where I'm all 'you will be mine, O yes' and you're all 'eeeek, unhand me, I'd rather die than join in your unholy crusade.'"



"No, that was last winter when you wanted me to go Christmas shopping in early October."



"Christmas shopping in October is just efficient."



"Trust you"-she sneered-"to get grotesque and efficient mixed up."



"Why do I want to save you and keep you around for eternity again?"



She shrugged. "Beats me."



I looked at the ceiling, because I didn't want to look at her. I didn't want to try to figure out if her color was off, if she'd lost weight. "Jessica, this thing might kill you."



"So your response is... to kill me?"



"It's a chance for some kind of life. A life where your best friend is the queen. That's got to be worth something."



She nudged my shoulder with a toe. "You're glossing over all the things that could go wrong."



"Well, so are you!"



"There's time. Time to fight this. I'm sorry-I can see it's been a little on the agonizing side for you. But typical Betsy-you assumed this was something you had to decide. It's my life, and my death, and I'm choosing to stand and fight." She smiled. "Besides, if you turn me into a vampire, I don't think we can hide that from Nick. And then he'll know for sure!"



"The least of my problems," I said glumly. Then I said, "You haven't told him yet?"



"I'm saving it," she said, suddenly glum, too, "for our two-month-aversary."



What a phenomenally bad idea. Also, none of my business. "If that's how you feel..."



"That's entirely, exactly how I feel. So no sneaking around and leaping out at me from the shadows to try and turn me, okay?" She picked up her afghan, and got back to work.



Good example for all of us.



"Okay," I said, getting up and walking toward the door, "but if you change your mind and decide you want to be foully murdered-"



"I'll run up to your room first thing," she promised.



Mollified, I left.