Chapter 46
You girls! If you’re going swimming, you should be
ashamed of yourselves! And if not, go home and cover
yourselves!”
“Oh, yeah? Well, fu—”
Fuck you and the horse you are
literally riding in on had been where I was going with that.
But the Antichrist had the reflexes of a rabid mongoose released in
a reptile hut, so she did that arm-wrap-around-the-neck thing you
usually see big brothers doing to little brothers, clapped her
fingers over my mouth, and cheerily called, “Yes, sir! We sure
will!”
“I’m going to drool
like a beast on your fingers, you hateful cow. I’m gonna start
slobbering any second now. Just as soon as I work up some saliva.
Then you’ll be sorry. Then you’ll wish you were time traveling with
someone else.”
“Too late on that
last, Betsy. If they mistook modern clothes for bathing
costumes—”
“They deserve to be
set on fire,” I finished. “Why is our swimming or not any of their
damned business in the first place? Ashamed of ourselves? Who
appointed that jackass general of the Morals National Guard? I get
that it’s ancient America and all, but it is still
America.”
“Yes, and we’re women
in ancient America. Black guys had the vote before we did,
remember, and once upon a time, they thought those poor guys were
property. Property got the vote before
we did. That’s like the Levee Café getting to vote before we did.
So look demure, darn it.”
“I have no idea what
expression I should arrange my face into. Demure? That’s not even a
real word, is it?”
“Sedate,” the
Antichrist suggested.
“Not in a million
zillion years. Hey, do we even know what the year is? I still don’t see any cars. When the hell did
the Ford family take over the country?”
“Not ‘til the late
1800s,” Laura explained. “Not the Fords. When cars were invented.
Nobody has a hard-and-fast date, but in the late part of the
century is what people figure. They started showing up around
then.”
“Wow. And here I was
afraid this time travel thing would be hideously dangerous and
boring. But it’s only hideously dangerous. How d’you know when cars
started to show up?”
“My minor is
midwestern American history.”
“You have a minor?”
It was probably rude to ask my own sister what her major was. That
was something a big sister would know, right? Wait. I think I knew
this one. Let’s see ... if I was a virginal Antichrist and had a
partial scholarship to the University of Minnesota, what would my
major be?
Food business
management? Animal science? Not evil enough. Applied economics?
Plenty evil, but not virginal enough. Civil engineering?
Environmental design? None of these seemed quite right
...
“And that was in New
Jersey, I think.”
“What
was?”
“That first car,
please pay attention. But, see, they wouldn’t have gotten to a
small town in Minnesota for years and years. So I’m guessing we’re
somewhere in the 1920s.”
“Where’s a bulletin
board right out on the street, with the day’s newspaper helpfully
plastered on it?” I squinted into the afternoon sun and reminded
myself to count my blessings. I was the only vampire who
could be outside, squinting into the
sun, and it was best to keep those things in mind. “I miss
Salem.”
Laura sniggered.
“Bite your tongue.”
“I’d like to bite
somebody’s. I hate to add a problem when we’ve got a saddlebag
full, but I’m getting kind of hungry. And did you notice how I
slipped a 1920-ish colloquialism into my conversation? That’s
right, baby! Never let it be said that the queen of the undead
can’t blend.”
Kind of was a sizeable lie. (So was blend.) Because the truth was I was always hungry.
Okay, thirsty. Whenever I opened my eyes. And whenever I closed
them. And often for long periods in between.
Most of the time I
could just grit my fangs and bear it. But I did occasionally have
to give in to my unholy craving for human blood. The rapists had
held me for a while, but ...
“Uh ...” Laura’s hand
had gone to the collar of her shirt, where she was absently
fiddling with it. I doubt she was even aware of it. So I decided
not to call her attention to it. “That could be a
problem.”
“For the greatest
time-traveling team since Lewis and Clark? No chance, baby.”
Ignoring Laura’s snort of laughter, I continued outlining my
sinister plan. “Ideally, we’ll catch some bigoted wife beater in
the middle of committing a felony. Or in the middle of a coma. I
usually try to limit my chomping to rapists, thieves, murderers,
and DVD bootleggers. And the occasional student loan officer. So
keep your eyes peeled for a felony. Or a stupidly high rate of
interest.”
“I
think—”
“Enh, who am I
kidding? Beggars can’t be choosers. Watch for misdemeanors,
too.”
“I think we might
have lucked out again,” Laura said, sounding guardedly optimistic.
“The town seems almost deserted. In fact, I haven’t even seen
anyone on the street since that man yelled ... at ... us
...”
She’d trailed off
because she’d seen what I’d heard a few minutes ago—the jingling of
many horses.
Three teams of two,
in fact. Dressed in black—well, whatever you dressed horses up in
(reins? leashes?), in 1920s (probably) Hastings, Minnesota. And the
horses were pulling three big black wagons.
Each one toting a
coffin.
Dozens and dozens of
townspeople were now streaming into town; it was obvious nearly
everyone had been at the wake and had walked into town afterward. I
was even able to catch snatches of conversations over the jingling
and clipclopping and wheel-squeaking.
Laura sucked in
breath, then let it out in a slow gasp. “Oh my G—”
“Shut
up.”
She shut. I was sorry
to have had to snap at her, but I needed my concentration to
listen.
“—poor
things—”
“—after losing the
daughter—”
“—poor boy, all alone
now—”
“—catch
them?”
“—naw, long gone by
now—”
“—sheriff couldn’t
even—”
There were more
murmurings, but I’d gotten the jist of it. And the jist sucked.
“Aw, dammit”
Laura was already
shaking her head. “No.”
“This is
bad.”
“No.”
“It’s—”
“No!” Laura had
actually clapped her hands over her ears. “I can’t hear
you!”
“Yeah. You can. And
there’s no point in telling you, since you already figured it
out”
She lowered her hands
and her face—it was so stricken. She felt as badly as I did. “It’s
them, isn’t it? It’s Eric’s parents.”
“And his twin, Erin.”
I watched the horse-drawn hearses pull past us. We were standing
under one of those old-fashioned hangy-porch things, a perfect view
to watch the procession. To watch practically the whole town go by.
“A triple funeral for the Sinclair family. They’re taking the
coffins up the hill to the cemetery.”
“No wonder that man
yelled at us.”
“Yeah. I’d have done
the same thing if I saw a couple of doorknobs in bathing suits
ready to hop in the Mississippi the day of a triple
funeral.”
“Okay.” Laura cleared
her throat. “This is bad, but we can work around it. I—I don’t mean
that the way it came out.”
“I know you
didn’t.”
“Okay. Once they’re
all past, we should be able to find—hey!”
I’d seized her hand
and headed for the street. “We’re going.”
“Back to
hell?”
“Worse.” I waved at a
lone man driving an empty wagon. “We’re going to the
funeral.”