Four Days Later

"Um, Mr. Mason, d'you have a minute?"

We were back in the employee section, and I was standing just outside the boss's cubicle. Tastefully upholstered in blah gray, there wasn't a single picture, kid's drawing, party invitation, or Softball signup sheet tacked to any of the cube walls. Except for a computer, his work space was clear. The place was as Spartan as a monk's cell. It was impressive and creepy at the same time. "If you're busy, I could-"

"I am, Betsy, but I'm glad you came back here... I need to speak with you." He took off his glasses-was it, like, a rule that if you were in management you wore glasses?-gestured for me to sit, and then polished the frames on his sweater which, weirdly, was tucked into his slacks. "But first, what can I do for you?"

"Uh, well, my paycheck seemed a little light. Not that it wasn't a kick to have a check from Macy's, because it was. But still... I was expecting a bit more. I was thinking maybe you guys didn't have all my hours on there, or something."

He held out his hand, and I gave him my pay stub. He scanned it once, then handed it back. "Well, there's fica, federal tax, state tax..."

"Right."

"And your employee discount."

"Right. What?" Damn! I'd bought a few things to celebrate my new job, but I had no idea I'd spent four-fifths of my paycheck before I even got it. Damn you, indigo blue high heels from Liz Claiborne!

"Oh," I said, sounding just so intelligent, I was sure. "I forgot about that. Sorry to bother you."

"A moment, please, Betsy. How do you like being on the Macy's team?"

"Are you kidding? It's great! It's like a dream come true!"

"I'm glad. And with one or two small exceptions, it's a pleasure to have you working here."

"Uh-oh," I said dolefully.

He smiled. "First let me say your knowledge of fine footwear is unparalleled by anyone in the store, excepting myself."

I modestly brushed my bangs out of my face. Excepting myself, my ass. But be nice. "Thanks."

"However..."

"Oh, here we go."

"I've noticed you try to talk a... a certain type of customer... out of their purchases."

I didn't say anything to that, and fought the urge to squirm in my chair. The fact was, if someone came in wearing shoes that were terribly beat up, I was loathe to sell them one of my finely made babies. Who knew what could happen? Once the shoes were out of the stores, they were beyond my protective sphere. I had to look out for my leather charges!

"Well," I finally said, "I don't like to be one of those pushy sales types."

"That is admirable, but nor should you be one of those sales types who doesn't sell shoes. Keep it in mind, please."

"Okay," I said humbly. For a minute I toyed with the idea of hypnotizing him into letting me sell to whomever the hell I wanted, then rejected the plan. I never liked forcing people to my evil will and only did it in emergencies... like when I was starving, or needed to cut in line at the movies.

I vowed I'd sell to the next person who asked me for help. No matter how ratty her sneakers, no matter how tatty her heels, no matter if her eye shadow had creases at the lids and her lip liner didn't match her lipstick, I'd sell her something fabulous and keep a smile on my face at the same time, even if I needed to rush into the employees' lounge and throw up afterward.

I marched back out onto the sales floor, my gaze darting about for a likely customer. Ah! There was one, and she was actually pretty well-dressed-linen jacket and navy slacks. Good shoes-Manolos, circa 2001. She was about my mom's age, and was looking at the Beverly Feldman boots.

"Hi," I said brightly. She jumped and nearly fell into the display. I grabbed her elbow and steadied her-a little too firmly. Her feet actually left the floor for a moment. "Whoa, there. I didn't mean to startle you."

She turned to look at me, her eyes so wide I could see the whites all the way around her pupils. I heard her heartbeat suddenly pick up a double-time pace, and felt real, real bad. "Don't do that, dear! I didn't even hear you come up behind me!"

"I'm sorry." Nice work, Betsy, you retard. You've gone from refusing to sell to your customers to scaring the shit out of them. Stupid undead quiet feet. "I didn't mean to scare you."

She was peering up at me. "Why are you wearing sunglasses?"

"I have weak eyes," I lied. "The fluorescents really kill. Uh... I just wanted to know if you had any questions."

"I have a question."

All the hair on my arms stood straight up and I nearly shuddered. I knew that voice. Eric Sinclair, bad-ass vampire and all-around sneak. And my consort, God help me. How's this for ludicrous: most of the vampires think I'm their queen, and that Eric's their king. My king.

I straightened up and stared off in the distance, cocking my head attentively. "Yes, Satan?" I turned slowly, and faked a big smile for Sinclair. "Oops! Sorry, Sinclair. I got you mixed up with someone else."

He was standing by the tree of shoes I'd made out of Liberty ankle boots, arms folded across his chest, mouth a slash of disapproval. As always when I saw him, my undead heart went pitter. A true irony: I'd had to die to meet someone truly spectacular, and it turned out I couldn't stand him.

He was dressed in black linen slacks, a dark blue shirt, and loafers without socks. He was wearing a black suede jacket that looked like a Kenneth Cole.

As always, his charisma was like a rough wave. I had to actively resist the urge to cross the six feet between us and put my hands in his jacket, ostensibly to check the label. He was still the best-looking guy I'd ever seen, all rangy height and powerful build and black hair, and the blackest eyes. The eyes, in fact, of a devil.

Not to mention the devil's mouth. The man could kiss, and that was a fact. It was one of the more infuriating things about him. He'd never asked to kiss me. Not once. Just took what he liked. I hated him, and I hated myself for wanting him.

"I simply didn't believe it."

"What? I wasn't paying attention."

The moment had probably seemed longer than it was. I hadn't seen him since the night we had killed our common enemy, Nostro, and, er, coupled. What can I say, it had been a weird week.

I turned back to my customer, who was staring openmouthed at Sinclair. Her breathing had all but stopped. Her heartbeat was still galloping away. I gave her a poke. "We have several lovely boots in that style."

"I was certain Tina had been mistaken."

"Or I could go get some more from the back."

"So I came down to this capitalist hellhole to see for myself."

I turned. "Do you mind? I'm-aagghh!" He'd crossed the distance between us with his usual spooky speed, and when I'd turned I'd nearly run into his chest.

"This is intolerable."

"Pal, you don't know the half of it," I said to the buttons on his shirt. I put my hands on his broad chest-ooooh, mama!-and shoved him back a step. "Get lost, I'm working."

"My queen," he said, glaring down at me, "does not work."

"This one does," I said shortly. "And do you hear yourself? Jeez, I knew you were an ancient motherfucker, but even you must know women can have jobs now. And dammit! You made me say 'motherfucker' at work."

"No consort of mine is going to peddle footwear for minimum wage," he snapped. "Get your things right now. You're coming back to my-our-home, which you should have done three months ago."

"What home? Last I looked, your mansion was a pile of ash." I ignored the stab of guilt. Sinclair's thirty-room haven had been torched the night I got snatched by the bad guys and practically beheaded. Then I killed the bad guy and boinked Sinclair. Like I said. Crazy week. "There's no way you rebuilt it in three months."

"True," he admitted. "I'm keeping a suite at the Marquette for Tina and the others."

"Vampires are staying at the Marquette Hotel?"

"The concierge service is excellent," he said defensively. "And your place is at my side. Not in this monument to consumer greed, waiting on... on tourists."

"What are you, the Fred Flintstone of vampires? Clearly we've never met, or you forgot everything you knew about me." I clasped his hand and shook it like a Republican, which I was. His hand was cool, and twice as big as mine. "Hi, I'm Betsy. I'm a feminist, I work for my money, and I don't take orders from long-toothed jerk offs. Nice to meet you."

He had a familiar expression on his face-anger warring with a smile. "Elizabeth..."

I controlled a shiver. Nobody said my name like he did. First of all, nobody called me Elizabeth. And nobody did it with such a rich, rolling tone, either. He said my name the way diabetics talked about hot fudge sundaes. It was flattering, and distracting beyond belief.

I'd been shaking his hand, but now he was gripping it in both of his. This was nerve-racking, to put it mildly. I could pick up a car, and had. Sinclair was at least twice as strong. "Elizabeth, be reasonable."

"Not in my job description. Go away."

"You succeeded admirably, you know. I've come to you. You've won. Now return with me and"-he leaned in closer. His black eyes filled my world-"we'll discuss things."

I tried to pull my hand away, with no luck. I resisted the urge to brace my foot on his knee and kick free.

"I had all the discussions with you I care to have had," I squeaked firmly, hoping I didn't sound as rattled as I was. Have I mentioned that on top of everything else, Sinclair was really good at discussing things? You could say those one-on-one naked chats were his specialty. "You tricked me and you used me and you suck. Literally. And my getting this job doesn't have a damned thing to do with you, you conceited twerp."

"Then why are you here?" he asked, honestly puzzled.

The man was impossible. "Because I have to work, idiot! I have bills to pay."

He let go of my hand and straightened. This was both a relief-he wasn't looming over me like a gorgeous Bela Lugosi-and a disappointment. "I have money," he said, trying a smile. It looked ghastly, because I knew he was forcing himself not to throw me over his shoulder and head for the fire exit.

"Goody for you. It's not mine, you know. Nothing of yours is mine."

"Such lies."

"Will you stop it? Now get lost, I have two hours to go on my shift."

"I command you to resign your post."

I burst out laughing. I actually had to lean against him to keep from falling down. It was like leaning against a great-smelling boulder. Finally I wiped my eyes and said, "Thanks, I needed that. Long day."

"I was serious," he said stonily.

"So was I! Now get lost, you sneaky creep. Go find some other bimbo to lie to."

"I never lied to you."

"Why, you're lying right now! Ooooh, you've got nerve coming out your ass. You-"

"Ahhh... Betsy? Is there a problem?"

We both turned. Sinclair let out a small, exasperated growl at the interruption. As if he didn't have enough odious qualities, he was unbelievably arrogant and felt strongly that peons should keep then-distance.

My boss, Mr. Mason, was standing by the cash register. He was holding one of his clipboards-he had at least five, each with a different color pen attached to the clasp by a color-coordinated string-and looked icy cool, as usual. I didn't think the man could sweat.

"There's no problem, Mr. Mason. This"-Asshole. Degenerate. Devil. Plague on my life. Lawful consort-"fella was just leaving."

Mason coughed into his fist. "Do you need a break in the green room?"

"Green room" was the code for "do you want me to get Security down here to kick his ass out, righteous?" This showed Mr. Mason was a man of high intelligence. Humans got the creeps around run-of-the-mill vamps. Something about us just set their radar off. Sinclair wasn't run of the mill. Women wanted him, and men were scared shitless of him. Deep down in their brains, they knew exactly what he was. But the women-and a disturbing number of men-ignored the part of their brain that told them to get away and stay away. Mason wasn't doing that.

"No, no," I said hastily. God knew what Sinclair would do to the rent-a-cops. "Really, everything's fine. My... uh... friend was just leaving."

"This is your supervisor?" Sinclair asked, barely glancing at Mason.

"Ind-may your own usiness-bay. Bye!"

Sinclair locked gazes with Mr. Mason. "Fire her."

Mason's eyes went blank and shiny, and he actually swayed before Sinclair. He was like a bird being hypnotized by a cobra!

I kicked the rat fink right in the ankle, bruising the hell out of my foot. "Don't you dare!"

"Betsy... so sorry..." Mason slurred, "Cutbacks... budget... exemplary performance... really quite knowledgeable... but... but... regret... regret..." He was so distressed at being forced to do something against his natural instincts, I expected him to say "Does not compute!" and start sputtering smoke.

"Go back to your cube and forget this ever happened!" I snapped. I whipped off my glasses-Macy's was divine, but the lights were fierce-and let the full force of my undead mojo, which was considerable, if I do say so myself, flare out. "Do it now!"

Mason ran out. He did it stiffly, his arms never moved from his sides. I watched him go, appalled, and then rounded on Sinclair.

"If you ever-ever!-do that again, I will kick your ass severe."

"Do tell."

"I mean it! Don't be coming into my workplace and making me say 'motherfucker' and hypnotizing my boss. Now get lost!" I could feel my face trying mightily to get red. Since my blood flowed sluggishly at best, all that happened was that I got a headache.

"You'll need my help again."

I made throwing up noises in response.

"Oh, I think so," he said coolly, but his eyes were glittering in a way I didn't like. And where were his sunglasses? "Your very nature assures it. As always, I am at your service. But..." He rested a finger on my nose. I jerked away. "There will be a penalty to be paid."

"Yeah? Will I have to listen to you whining about prophecies and concierge service? Because if that's the penalty, I'd rather eat glass than take your help."

"Agreed." He gripped my arms and lifted me up until we were eye level. This was startling, to say the least. My heart was probably pounding at ten beats a minute! I heard a double clack! as my shoes fell off my feet. "Before I go..."

He leaned in. I leaned back. It wasn't easy, since my feet were a good eight inches off the floor. "You put your face on mine, I'll bite your lips off."

He shrugged. "They'll grow back."

"Yuck! Put me down."

He sighed and set me down. "Until you need me, then." He turned around and walked out of the shoe department.

I yelled after him, "Don't hold your breath, loser!" Although he certainly could. For hours.

Strong words. But it took me an hour to stop shaking. It hadn't been easy, pulling back from that kiss.

Plus, believe it or not, I really hate confrontations.

I turned back to help my customer, but she was long gone. In fact, the entire shoe department was empty except for me. Great.

Damn you, Sinclair.