Undead and Undermined

Chapter FIVE



“Gaaaaah,” was all I managed as the kitchen floor rushed up and hit me in the forehead. Stupid rushing floor, why did it have to move when I’d had a terrible, terrible shock? Oh, wait. I’d fallen and I couldn’t get up. That old lady in the commercial had a buzzer . . . Where was my buzzer? I wanted a buzzer. Bring me a buzzer! The queen has spoken. “Too much . . . weirdness . . . blacking out . . .”

Nick (?) helpfully dripped smoothie on my forehead and I realized Sinclair was rubbing my hands between his while Marc tried to check my vitals.

“Why do I always do this?” he bitched. “Why do I ever try to get a pulse or BP off you?”

“Because you’re an idiot in every timeline.” I resisted the urge to shout that into the bell of his stethoscope.

“I must apologize.” Sinclair’s dark eyes were wide. He was rubbing my hands so hard, I assumed he was trying to start a fire. “My poor queen! I should have predicted your reaction.”

“Why? When have you ever been able to do that? I’m all right.” If I had a dollar for every time I ended up ass over teakettle, smack-o on the floor when I was startled or freaked or shot, I’d—well. Since Sinclair’s fortune was now mine, I actually did have a dollar for every time. “Let me up.”

“No,” at least three of them said at once. Then Marc added, “Your pulse is seven. I’ve mentioned before: that’s incompatible with life, right?”

“It’s just a lot to take in.”

“Tell me! Everything about you is incompatible with life.”

“Not my pulse, dumbass. Nick, if you drop one more fruity drop on me—it’s in my hair!—I will take you to at least three shoe sales.”

He jerked his glass away so quickly he almost dropped it. Ah-ha! So this was a potent weapon in both timelines. Excellent.

One of the worried faces above mine was Garrett’s. He looked like he did in my timeline . . . sort of rumpled and fierce, like he could dart off at any moment and his clothes wouldn’t hinder him. He was too thin—I always wanted to hook him up to a milkshake IV—and he was sort of flinch-ey.

It’s hard to describe . . . he came off as high strung yet calm. Like someone who freaked out at the thought of speaking in public but didn’t mind being in a choir. Someone who froze at the thought of back-to-school shopping but didn’t mind going to the dentist. Someone who didn’t fret about what to wear, but always wore clean clothes.

Garrett was technically an old man—he was an old-timey actor from 1940s Hollywood; how was that for retro?—but his swimmer’s build and blond, shoulder-length hair were more Playgirl than AARP.

“I made you afraid,” he commented, gazing down at me with eyes that were mild as chocolate, yet I remembered times when they could glare with fury.

“You sure did. You’ve got a lot of nerve being alive.” I could hardly believe my eyes. And seeing he had a canvas bag hanging off one shoulder that was stuffed with balls of yarn and bulging with several sizes of knitting needles, I wanted to laugh and give thanks. Garrett, the Fiend formerly known as George, could crochet a mean baby’s blanket in this reality as well.

It’s corny, but as I reached up to touch his dear face, I felt blessed. I hadn’t gotten a chance to know him before he died. Hadn’t bothered, was more like it. And to be honest, my sadness after his suicide had been more guilt than anything else. But I would make up for that. Hadn’t I just been thinking about how great it was to get a do-over in Nickie/Dickie’s case, how in real life that almost never happened? Here were two, not even five minutes apart.

“I’m so happy to see you. Is—is Antonia . . . ?”

“Yes. She died protecting you. But don’t worry, Majesty.”

Worry? Was he kidding? I don’t think I’d ever been less worried in my life. “Okay.”

“You told me your plan.”

“I did? How awesome of me. And I know, I’m sure, it was a wonderful plan, a great plan, my most genius plan ever. A plan I was brilliant to think up and you were privileged to hear.” I cleared my throat and glared at Jessica and Marc, who were rolling their eyes. “D’you mind reminding me what my plan is?”

“Oh, that. Sure. You and I and the Antichrist are going to hell to get my wife back.”

And here it came. Stroke number two.