another subtle subject change. “So how about this weather! Also, thanks for coming over. Everybody’s really glad you came.”
“Why?”
God, this is torture.
“Why wouldn’t they be? We’re sisters, BabyJon’s our brother, this is our family now.”
“Your family.” She set the puppy down just in time; she walked about four feet, then squatted and peed. The dog, not the Antichrist. “Not mine. You killed mine.”
“No.”
All at once I was super pissed at her. Partly because the “woe, woe” thing was aging faster than yogurt, and partly out of my own guilt. “You still have your mom and dad, your
real
—”
She cut me off. “Our father and Little Horn were my real parents.”
Little . . . wait, what? Never mind.
“Nope. Not at all, not for half a second. Your real parents took you in and loved you and fed you and sat up with you when you had the flu so bad you were barfing in your sleep—”
“Who told you about that?”
“The vampire queen sees all.” Nope, she wasn’t buying it. When was I going to consistently remember she not only wasn’t impressed by vampire powers, she thought they were inherently evil? “It was my mom because you told
her.
And while your parents were doing all that stuff they also saved up to send you to college and did everything they could to be all-around awesome parents and when Satan popped in and played ‘This is your life’ they
still
loved you and you were still
their
daughter.
“Your dad’s a minister and your mom’s a nurse; they’ve spent their lives helping people and bringing you up—because you’re their
daughter
—to do the same, and you can’t get much more white knight than that.” One of the perks of being a bad person is being able to spot the good ones. “They know you’re the spawn of Satan and they don’t give a shit. That’s why they’re
real
.”
Laura just shook her head in denial and went on being gorgeous. Hard to say which one was more annoy—oh, who did I think I was fooling, the gorgeous thing was more annoying. In faded jeans—not artfully or artificially faded, but wore-them-to-tons-of-soup-kitchens faded, with a long-sleeved U of M crimson T-shirt under an unzipped dirty-brown jacket she’d had for years, hair loose and messy, her big blue eyes rimmed in red like she’d been crying or was about to start, her nose red for the same reason.
So annoying! Fuck it. No more screwing around. No more long awkward pauses or pretending things were almost okay when they were very damned far from being okay, nope, enough, it was time to grab the Antichrist by the horns.
“D’you want to know what your mother said when I killed her?”
Her (lipstickless yet perfectly red) lips parted but she said nothing. And for a second I could almost feel the air crackle between us. This could be interesting. And by interesting I meant fatally gory.
But the crackling quit because the door again popped open, rebounded, and would have smacked Sinclair if he hadn’t caught it, stepped into the yard, and carefully let it close behind him.
“There you two are, you bad little bitches! You were very bad to run away and I have been just
sick
about it.”
“I’m sor—”
“He’s talking to the dogs.” I sighed, rubbing my eyes. Could vampires get a fatal aneurysm? Please God, let them be vulnerable to fatal aneurysms.
“Yes indeed,” Sinclair said, bounding over to us. He was in another dark suit, not cheap enough for casual wear but not expensive enough for a family dinner. “I could never refer to the two of you as bad bitches. I am certain I would dislike getting staked in the chest.”
“My God,” Laura said, and Sinclair politely inclined his head. “Ah . . . sorry about that. I’ve never—I knew Betsy had done something but I didn’t—” She stopped in confusion for a second. “I’ve never seen you outside in the daytime.”
“I understand your confusion.”
“He knows he looks scrumptious with the sun
“Why?”
God, this is torture.
“Why wouldn’t they be? We’re sisters, BabyJon’s our brother, this is our family now.”
“Your family.” She set the puppy down just in time; she walked about four feet, then squatted and peed. The dog, not the Antichrist. “Not mine. You killed mine.”
“No.”
All at once I was super pissed at her. Partly because the “woe, woe” thing was aging faster than yogurt, and partly out of my own guilt. “You still have your mom and dad, your
real
—”
She cut me off. “Our father and Little Horn were my real parents.”
Little . . . wait, what? Never mind.
“Nope. Not at all, not for half a second. Your real parents took you in and loved you and fed you and sat up with you when you had the flu so bad you were barfing in your sleep—”
“Who told you about that?”
“The vampire queen sees all.” Nope, she wasn’t buying it. When was I going to consistently remember she not only wasn’t impressed by vampire powers, she thought they were inherently evil? “It was my mom because you told
her.
And while your parents were doing all that stuff they also saved up to send you to college and did everything they could to be all-around awesome parents and when Satan popped in and played ‘This is your life’ they
still
loved you and you were still
their
daughter.
“Your dad’s a minister and your mom’s a nurse; they’ve spent their lives helping people and bringing you up—because you’re their
daughter
—to do the same, and you can’t get much more white knight than that.” One of the perks of being a bad person is being able to spot the good ones. “They know you’re the spawn of Satan and they don’t give a shit. That’s why they’re
real
.”
Laura just shook her head in denial and went on being gorgeous. Hard to say which one was more annoy—oh, who did I think I was fooling, the gorgeous thing was more annoying. In faded jeans—not artfully or artificially faded, but wore-them-to-tons-of-soup-kitchens faded, with a long-sleeved U of M crimson T-shirt under an unzipped dirty-brown jacket she’d had for years, hair loose and messy, her big blue eyes rimmed in red like she’d been crying or was about to start, her nose red for the same reason.
So annoying! Fuck it. No more screwing around. No more long awkward pauses or pretending things were almost okay when they were very damned far from being okay, nope, enough, it was time to grab the Antichrist by the horns.
“D’you want to know what your mother said when I killed her?”
Her (lipstickless yet perfectly red) lips parted but she said nothing. And for a second I could almost feel the air crackle between us. This could be interesting. And by interesting I meant fatally gory.
But the crackling quit because the door again popped open, rebounded, and would have smacked Sinclair if he hadn’t caught it, stepped into the yard, and carefully let it close behind him.
“There you two are, you bad little bitches! You were very bad to run away and I have been just
sick
about it.”
“I’m sor—”
“He’s talking to the dogs.” I sighed, rubbing my eyes. Could vampires get a fatal aneurysm? Please God, let them be vulnerable to fatal aneurysms.
“Yes indeed,” Sinclair said, bounding over to us. He was in another dark suit, not cheap enough for casual wear but not expensive enough for a family dinner. “I could never refer to the two of you as bad bitches. I am certain I would dislike getting staked in the chest.”
“My God,” Laura said, and Sinclair politely inclined his head. “Ah . . . sorry about that. I’ve never—I knew Betsy had done something but I didn’t—” She stopped in confusion for a second. “I’ve never seen you outside in the daytime.”
“I understand your confusion.”
“He knows he looks scrumptious with the sun
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