Undead 5, Undead and Unpopular - MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,1

to my surprise party."

Jessica, a painfully skinny nag with gorgeous skin the color of Godiva milk chocolate, laughed at me. "Honey, it hurts me to say this. Like a sliver in the eyeball. But we're not. Planning. A party."

"Although," I added, "you don't have to try too hard to get the Ant there. I wouldn't mind if she missed it."

"Sugar." She gave up the espresso maker as too complicated—this was a nightly ritual—and fixed herself a glass of chocolate milk instead. "You made it perfectly clear two months ago: no party. And we believed you. So stop making guest lists and worrying about your stepmother showing up. It's not happening."

"Are we talking about the nonexistent surprise party?" Tina asked, startling me as her bare feet slid noiselessly across the spotless shamrock green kitchen tile.

"I'm putting bells around your pretty, petite ankles," I told her.

Jessica had nearly choked on her drink, Tina had so startled her. She took a breath and said, "She tells us our lives won't be worth living if we throw her a party, then she makes a guest list."

"Constancy, thy name is Queen Elizabeth," Tina murmured as she slid her tiny butt onto the breakfast nook bar stool next to George—dammit, I mean Garrett. She was dressed like the most tempting college student in creation, as usual—long blond curls, big pansy eyes, knee-length black skirt, white designer T-shirt, bare legs, black pumps. Most college students nowadays hadn't witnessed the Civil War, but undead bombshells like Tina just didn't let go of their perky tits.

"What do you want for your birthday, Majesty?" she was asking me as I stared jealously at those ageless melons. Her duties nowadays were the equivalent to serving as "best man" to Eric, whom she had turned into a vampire decades ago. Nowadays, instead of sucking his blood, she limited herself to smoothing out the morning edition of the Wall Street Journal, fixing his tea the way he liked it, and setting out gobs of paperwork for him to look through. "Some nice shoes, I suppose."

"You suppose wrong," I replied. "I want peace on earth, goodwill toward men."

"Do they have a store for that at the mall?" Jessica asked innocently. "Or maybe one of those sales carts in the walkways, right next to the portrait artist and the guy selling T-shirts with pithy sex jokes?" She was shamelessly stealing peeks at the memos Tina laid out neatly on the marble countertop.

"It'd be the only thing they don't have," I said. "Tina, Jessica, I know you. I know I told you not to throw a party, and that therefore you will throw one. But if you want to keep up the deceit—fine. No party. Instead, find a quiet moment to pray for the aforementioned world peace and global harmony, or failing that, snag me a fat gift card from Bloomingdale's."

"Or perhaps a pair of the new Prada loafers," Jessica added.

"No, I'm sick of loafers. Spring is here—I want some strappy sandals." Which was kind of silly—I couldn't wear them with socks, and these days my extremities were pretty icy. But still. I was sick of winter, and this was Minnesota—we had at least two more months of snow.

"Right," Jess said. "Because you don't have enough of those."

"Why don't you take one of my existing pairs and shove them up your cute black butt?" I suggested sweetly.

"Well, Ms. Taylor, why don't you take your delicate ivory nose and—"

Tina interrupted the argument du jour. "Majesty, are there any designer shoes you don't like?"

Garrett cleared his throat as he started a different stitch—knit, garter, crochet—it was all the same to me. "She doesn't care for Packard Shah sandals. Especially the gold ones."

"This is true," I confirmed. "They're all like something out of the Boogie Nights prop drawer. I mean, what year is this? I'd pay two hundred bucks not to wear them."

"No need for that," Eric Sinclair said, ignoring my yelp and Jessica's flinch. He was worse than Tina. Where she slithered silently, he teleported like an alien. A tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, dark-eyed, yummilicious alien. "You have a thousand pairs of sandals."

"Do not. Leave me alone and read your papers."

"Guest list?" he asked, leaning over my shoulder and peering at my pad. "But you don't want a party."

"You're damned right I don't!" I slapped my notebook shut. In fact, I didn't. I was pretty sure. "How many times do I have to say it?"

Don't get me wrong: I can hear myself. And I'm very self-aware, regarding all my