Undead and Uneasy by MaryJanice Davidson Read Free Book Online

wont. My life (such as it was) would be normal again.

    "How is everyone else taking it?"

    "Well, that's the thing." I perched on the counter, got comfy, and explained where
    everyone was. Or where I thought they were, anyway.

    Afterward there was a long, awkward silence on Tina's end, which I broke with a faux-
    cheerful, "Weird, huh?"

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    "Rat fuck," Tina muttered, and I nearly toppled off the counter. Tina, ancient
    bloodsucking thing that she was (she'd made Sinclair, and he was, like, seventy!), had the
    manners of an Elizabethan lady and almost never swore. She was perfectly proper at all
    nines.

    "Mother fuck," she continued. "Conspirational bastard shitstains."

    "Uh, Tina, I think someone else just got on the line—

    "They're all gone? All of them?"

    "Duh, that's what I just—"

    "For how long?"

    I looked at my watch, which was stupid, as it didn't show the date. "Almost a week now."

    "I'm calling the king."

    "Right, I got that the first time. Fine, call him, but he'd better not show up without
    flowers. And possibly diamonds. Or some Beverly Feldmans! Yeah, the red and gold flats
    would be perfect—"

    "My queen, you will not leave that house. You will—"

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    "Huh? What are you talking about?" Long pause. "Tina?"

    Nothing. Dead line. Again.

    I shrugged and hung up the phone. If the French couldn't get their act together—ever—to
    win a war, how could they be expected to keep the phone lines open?

    A mystery for another day. For now I had to figure out a feeding schedule for my new
    (groan) son, visit Jess (she'd want all the gory funeral details), and leave yet another
    message for Marc. A busy evening, and not even nine o'clock yet.

Chapter 8

    “You look like hot death," I informed my best friend cheerfully.

    "Go to hell," she snapped back, then coughed. Her normally gorgeous dark skin was more
    grayish than ebony, and her eyes were bloodshot. But she sounded a helluva lot better
    than she did three days ago. They'd finally quit the chemo, so she could get better.

    The horrible thing about chemotherapy, of course, is that it is poison, working by killing
    both cancerous and normal cells. Jessica said the cancer didn't bug her hardly at all, except
    for making her tired. It was the cure that fucked her up severely: vomiting, constant
    nausea, weight loss (and if anyone on the planet didn't need to lose weight, it was scrawny
    Jess). How fucked up was that, I ask you? In a hundred years, doctors will be laughing
    their asses off at how we, the century-old savages, "cured" cancer. I mean, why not just

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    "The moment you barf, I am so out of here." I plopped down in the chair beside her bed
    and got comfy, Babyjon snuggled against my shoulder.

    "I haven't barfed since suppertime, and that's because it was Salisbury Steak night."

    "Who could blame you?"

    "How go the wedding plans?"

    "They sort of screeched to a halt," I admitted. When you all abandoned me.

    "What? Bets, you've got to pick a dress! You've got to settle on the flowers—the florist is
    going out of her mind! You've got to meet with the caterer for the final tasting! You've—"

    "I will, I will. There's lots of time."

    "There's two weeks. Isn't Eric helping you at all?"

    "He's gone. Still sulking."

    "Oh, Betsy!" she practically yelled, then coughed again. "Will you just call him and
    apologize?"

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    "Me?" I yelped, loud enough to stir Babyjon, who immediately settled back to sleep. "I
    didn't do a damned thing. He's the one who left in a huff. Stupid runaway groom."

    "He'll be back," she predicted. "He can't stay away. He can't