Undead 5, Undead and Unpopular - MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,3

wrong. I mean, he was great-looking (it was the rare vampire who wasn't), but I had the impression he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. Not to mention, a few weeks ago he'd been running around on all fours and drinking blood by the bucket. Antonia was smart and, even if she'd been a drooling idiot, she could see the future. Hello? See the future. She could have had anybody, I figured.

She would have disagreed. Violently. It was amazing to me that a great-looking brunette with the body of a swimsuit model who could see the future had rotten self-esteem, but there it was. And who was I to judge? Garrett and Antonia had a good thing.

"Very well," the questionable prize I was dating said at last, in English. "You may stay. But Jessica, please watch what you say and do. Don't look them in the eyes for long. Speak only when spoken to. Yes, sir; yes, ma'am."

"Sit up. Arf," I teased.

"What about her?" Jessica cried, pointing in my general direction. "She's more in need of an etiquette lesson than I am."

"Yeah," I said, "but I'm the Queen. With a capital fucking Q. Hey, you're looking me in the eyes for too long! Eric, make her stop!"

"Give me a damn break," she muttered, and went upstairs making gagging noises.

Chapter 2

The doorbell rang as I watched Jessica rant her way up the foyer stairs. She had seemed especially prickly in the past few weeks. Not that I wasn't used to her speaking her mind; she was my best and oldest friend—we'd shared lipstick in junior high. Which, given our skin hues, was a true testament to our friendship (and more importantly, our ability to find common accessories). But it seemed like everything I said and did was going beyond surface irritation, and digging deep inside her annoy-a-meter.

"It's Sophie and Liam," Tina informed us from the foyer.

"Oh, good," I said, following everybody (except Garrett, who was deep in mid-afghan) out of the kitchen. "The fun meeting first."

"Nonsense," Eric said. "All meetings are fun."

I snorted, but didn't say anything. Truth be told, I was too busy looking at his black-panted butt, which was very fine. He was wearing a dark suit as usual, a perfect complement to his dark hair and eyes. He was so broad through the shoulders I often wondered how he fit through doorways, and had long, strong legs. I pondered the fact that I'd resisted his evil charms for so long.

Although these days, it felt like he was resisting mine. He'd dodged every wedding meeting we'd had. At least we'd agreed on the date: July 31. Sometimes it seemed like forever, and sometimes it seemed like the date was rushing up on me. And I was virtually planning the entire thing by myself (well, with Jessica's occasional help). He had no opinion on flowers, food, drinks, tuxes, gowns, ceremony, or the wedding song. If I didn't know for sure he loved me, I'd think he didn't—

"Your Majesties," Sophie was saying, bowing to us both. Tina had opened our enormous cherry front doors, and there were Sophie (Dr. Trudeau—she was a vet) and Liam, uh, whatever his last name was.

Sophie was dressed in a sharp navy suit with a cute short skirt, matching turtleneck, black tights, and black (ugh!) running shoes. I know it's practical for career women, but sneakers with suits? Jesus couldn't possibly weep harder than I did. Like all vampires, Sophie was ridiculously beautiful, with black hair (done up in an unfashionable bun) and pale, velvety skin. Her dark eyes didn't miss a flea. Which, in her line of work, was probably really good.

Liam was in jeans, leather jacket, and beat-up loafers. Which reminded me again that I was ready for spring, and sandals. It was always startling to see his youngish face (Late thirties? With the farmer's tan, it was hard to tell.) juxtapositioned against his prematurely gray hair.

Tina led us all into a parlor (there were at least four; don't get me started) and the first thing Sophie did when we were all seated was hand me a copy of that day's Star Tribune. "Would you please sign your article?" she asked pleasantly in the charming French accent she had never lost, not even after all these years here in Minnesota.

Eric muttered something under his breath that, luckily for him, I didn't catch. I had a weekly "Dear Betsy" column for vampires. It was supposed to be published in an undead-only newsletter, but someone