Undead and Unforgiven by MaryJanice Davidson

consequences” chat
.
I’d warned her at the time that getting your own way was often as much a curse as it was a blessing. See: Sinclair’s life, death, and afterlife; also mine, the Ant finally landing my father, and anyone who voted for Hitler back in the day.
    â€œThis
is
the other thing,” she corrected. “You want the background, don’t you?”
    Not really.
    â€œI can’t do what I was born to do—”
    â€œBe effortlessly gorgeous while sitting in judgment on pretty much everybody as you ignore your own sins?”
    Her lips thinned but she continued. “But I can do this. I can bring faith to the world.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œAny way I can.” She leaned forward, warming to her subject. Leaning away from her would probably be interpreted as unfriendly. Maybe I could pretend I didn’t want to catch her cold. If she had one. And if I could still catch colds. “Lectures, videos, websites. I already started a few while I was waiting for you to get back.” Was there a tiny hint of reproach in her tone? No. I decided there wasn’t, because if there was, I’d have to slap the shit out of her with a hymnal. “So I’ve been preparing the ground, so to speak, talking about our adventures and Hell and such while waiting for you.”
    â€œThat’s why Sinclair thinks the plan is to show the world vampires exist,” I said, thinking out loud.
    She shrugged. “Yes, I imagine his undead spies keephim well-informed.” When I raised my eyebrows she added, “Yes, he called me a couple of times, but I’m not obligated to explain myself to him.” Adding in a mutter, “I don’t know how he keeps getting my number . . .”
    â€œSo he was tipped off after he heard about the ‘Betsy and Laura: Time-Travelin’ Cuties’ show.” God, Marc would have a field day with this . . .
    â€œWhat, every other sinner can have a YouTube channel but I can’t?”
    â€œUm . . .”
Stay focused.
I was already envisioning the conversation my husband and I would have:
Good news! She’s not outing vamps. There’s a teeny bit of bad news, though. Why don’t you lie down while I tell you about her Great Idea . . .
    Meanwhile she was obliviously babbling. “I’d be different from the regular preachers . . . they’re talking about faith, which is all well and good for someone who isn’t
us.
I can offer proof. Look what just you and I have seen in . . . what? Less than four years? I always believed in Him, and I think you did, too—your mother failed you in your teenage years but she did make sure you went to Sunday school long enough to—”
    â€œDo not say one
    (church you’re in church)
    dang word against my mother.”
    Laura cut herself off and even flushed a little. “You’re right. That was inappropriate. I like your mom.”
    â€œI know you do.” I had to shake my head at my little sister’s many dichotomies. Skirts in church and brownies in the basement when not plotting to dump Hell on the vampire queen and murdering random serial killers. Genuinely fond of my mom—she called her Dr. Taylor and occasionally stopped in just to chat or to play with our half brother, BabyJon—but wouldn’t shed a tear at my funeral. Blithely ready to shove God onto the world whether the world wants it or not, but gets embarrassed when called out for being rude.
    â€œYou were telling me,” I prompted without grimacing or clutching my temples, “about your Great Idea.” God, now
I
was using the caps. At least it wasn’t pronounced in all caps, like when fifty-somethings or thirteen-somethings got on social media for the first time and felt every post had to be a scream.
    â€œOkay, so you always believed in Him, but before your—uh, unfortunate death—it was strictly