Undead and Undermined by MaryJanice Davidson Page B

and I was gonna jam it through his forehead.
    I had to stare for a good thirty seconds to understand what I was seeing. I thought the hallway had been surreal? Sinclair was right; I was an idiot. (He was also a jerk: who calls the awesome and only love of his life an idiot? Note to me: jerk his testicles up to his nostrils, then twist. Then nobly accept his apology. Repeat.)
    Tina had yanked the fridge out from the wall and unplugged it. She’d found several rolls of duct tape—you know how most people have a junk drawer in their kitchen? Yeah, well, in our Green Mill–sized kitchen, we had a junk cabinet, and in that cabinet were many rolls of duct tape. (Also many rolls of regular tape, index cards, Post-its, pens and pencils, markers, string—who used string anymore?—and various envelopes. And that was only the first shelf.)
    Old vampires like Tina and Sinclair loved duct tape. Looooooved it. They didn’t like just using it for what it was intended (e.g., fixing, repairing, undoing), they made things out of it. Pretty much any vampire born before duct tape had been invented thought it was the coolest stuff on earth. Velcro-cool. IPod cool.
    Anyway, Tina was taping the Marc Thing to the fridge. And doing it at ramped-up vampire speed. So what I saw was basically a blur of Tina spooling tape all over the Marc Thing like Charlotte spewed web for Wilbur. Which the Marc Thing found hilarious.
    It was all surreal enough to almost make me forget the pain of my mashed ribs. Which, to be honest, were feeling better and better. I hadn’t had any blood in—what century was I in? Okay, not quite right, I’d munched a bit on Sinclair before all the madness started (again), but it wasn’t the first time I noticed I was needing less blood and healing faster.
    Something to wonder about, some other time.
    “You’d be surprised,” Dickie/Nickie was telling Jessica, who looked as fascinated as I felt. “You can’t break it—most people can’t break it, and look how many rolls she’s going through!—and you can’t untie it. It’s as good as rope made out of Holy Water.”
    “The things I learn when I’ve been knocked up,” she commented.
    “So many questions,” Marc agreed, “and none of them are tape-related.”
    “I have questions for youuuuuu, tooooo,” the Marc Thing hummed.
    “Ech, why do you talk like that?” Jessica asked. “Are you trying to come off as batshit crazy?”
    “That is what I was going for, Big Round Jessica,” he confessed, “yes.”
    “I guess I should defend your honor,” Nickie/Dickie/ Tavvie said doubtfully, “but how? Kick him? Shoot him? Can I get a stake through all that tape?”
    “Save that for later,” Sinclair said. He was watching the blur of Tina and tape with approval. Then he turned back to the Marc Thing. “Unchivalrous comments aside, perhaps I won’t kill you.”
    It pouted, which was not a pretty sight. “Spoilsport.”
    “I will, however, require information.”
    “I require it, too,” Marc added, and Jess and N/Dick both nodded.
    I didn’t . . . I required him to die, leave, burst into flames, or turn into a new pair of Beverly Feldmans. But I had the feeling I wasn’t going to get what I wanted, at least right away. It wasn’t the first time no one gave a tin shit for my opinion. Queen-schmeen.
    Sinclair glanced at our friends with an expression we’d all seen before, because Jessica jumped right in. “Don’t you start pulling that only-vampires-can-know-about-this crap, Sink Lair.”
    My husband closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids. He looked like the Before picture in a Pepto-Bismol commercial. “Please don’t pronounce my name like that.”
    “Because we all live here; you’re not in this alone! Yeah, we’re not vampires—”
    “Not yet,” Marc Thing said slyly, earning him a sharp rap on the top of his head (“Hey!”) from Tina. If I were him, I wouldn’t antagonize Tina any further . . . the next smack could cave in his