Chapter 13
l hate the front door.
Well, I do, and that
was before The Thing. First off, it was practically the size and
thickness of a redwood. Heavy as hell, even with hinges. No
peephole ... and given that most vampires knew where I lived, that
was murderously stupid. Sort of like the asshats who occasionally
came looking for me.
Plus, it opened onto
an enormous foyer of marble and ancient furnishing and, on the
housekeeper’s off days, dust bunnies the size of orangutans. The
house smelled like ancient wood, floor wax, and dead flowers.
Everything was larger than life ... Tall doorways. Marble
everything. Tables that seated twenty. Chairs for the tables that
looked like thrones. (Target doesn’t carry chairs like that. I’ve
looked.) Someone who didn’t know a thing about the house’s
residents would instantly sense we were all up to no
good.
Subtle, it wasn’t.
And when the mistress of the obvious notices something isn’t
subtle? Brother, it’s time to pack up and leave town, because the
rain of fire was about to start.
Oh. Right. There was
one other thing I didn’t like about the front entryway. The library
(one of the libraries) was just off said entryway, and the library
was, in almost every way, worse than the front hall.
The Book of the Dead
was kept in the library. Which was a lot like saying the bomb was
kept in the garage next to the snowblower.
I crept toward the
awful thing. And why not? It was barely November and the month
already sucked rocks. What was the thing gonna do, give me
demonically infectious paper cuts?
Nope. You needed
paper for paper cuts. The Book of the Dead was written (in blood)
by a(n) (insane) vampire, on human skin.
Collect the
set!
I could feel my mouth
trying to pull down into an unattractive frown as I sidled closer.
Not that I had to worry about wrinkles. Only about turning evil and
watching helplessly while roommates died. And, you know,
taxes.
All the answers were
in there. The Book of the Dead was never wrong. The thing was just
sitting there on an old-fashioned, never-in-style book stand,
mocking me. If my late stepmother were a book, she would be that
book. All my questions could be answered. No more worrying ... no
more wondering, even.
Yep. All right there,
if I didn’t mind going insane. Now, I’m not the type to be picky,
and one girl’s insanity is another’s too-many-daiquiris weekend,
but the last time I’d overindulged I’d scared (and bitten) my best
friend and raped my husband. (I never did decide what was worse:
that I’d aggressively molested him or that he didn’t notice I’d
turned evil over the weekend.)
Have I mentioned the
horrible, horrible thing was fireproof? And waterproof? Every time
I tried to throw it away or destroy it, it came back. It was like
being in one of those buy-ten-DVDs-for-$2.99 clubs except more with
the evil and not so much with the weekly mailings.
Still, it was
tempting. Sure it was. Even though I knew it was dangerous—or was
that because I knew it was dangerous? Because if I really had to
give it some thought, I’d—
“What an unattractive
frown. Since you can’t rely on your brains, dear, you should try to
stay pretty as long as you can.”
My heart took a great
big ka-THUMP in my chest and I actually
staggered. I knew that sly-sweet voice. First the
book.
Now the
devil.