I stuck a finger in Alonzo's bemused face. "Don't even think about it."

He licked his thick lips. Which probably sounded gross, but it wasn't—it actually called attention to his lush mouth. "I assure you, Majesty, I do not make a move toward that delicacy of a man without your express permission."

"Ha!"

"But it is the truth," he said, sounding vaguely hurt. "Why else am I here, if not to make amends for yesterday?"

"To figure out how to kill me, after a rotten evening?"

He smiled at me. It was a nice smile; lit up his whole face and made him look like a pleasant farmer from Valencia instead of a rotten undead fiend from hell. "Oh, Majesty. Forgive me if I patronize, but how young you are to me. There was nothing rotten in last evening. Just a simple misunderstanding. To kill you in response—forgive me, to try to kill you in response—would be an overreaction of the worst sort."

Tina and Sinclair looked at each other and I could sense their unspoken agreement:it's a peace offering. Take it . As usual, when I was the only one who felt a certain way, I got pissed.

"Look, we can't just paper over this, okay? You weren't here two minutes before you plopped a big steaming pile of shit into my lap. Last night was bad , get it?"

"Majesty, lopping off heads and cutting off penises and flaying strips of skin and drying them out like jerky, then making innocent children chew on them, that would be bad. Not being allowed to feed until you lose your mind, fighting over victims like dogs in a pen, that is bad. Do you understand this?"

"Alonzo." I ran my fingers through my hair and resisted the urge to kick the couch through the wall. "Okay, I understand. You are trying to put this in perspective. So try to see mine. You hurt my friend. You killed my friend."

"When you were not in power, when I did not know she would be your friend."

"Agreed. But dude: she is gunning for you."

"And you will allow that? Am I not your subject as much as she is?" "Maybe a caged death match?" Marc hollered from the hallway.

Tina got up and firmly shut the door.

"Perhaps a formal apology?" Sinclair suggested.

"I would do that," Alonzo said at once. "It would be my honor to do that, to help Her Majesty and His Majesty find a way through this… difficult situation."

I sighed and looked at Tina and Sinclair. Of course they would want this to end here, with a hint of a chance at agreement, so we could move on with

diplomatic relations.

I gave them both a look. Tina had turned Sinclair; they were best buddies.

Of course he would think Sophie and Alonzo could Just Get Along.

"You didn't see her tonight. She is beyond pissed. And she's pissed atme , because I'm not helping her. Yet," I added, hoping to wipe the smile off his face. Unfortunately, since I wasn't cutting off his penis or making him eat his own skin, he was in a pretty good mood.

"Where's the rest of the Undead L'il Rascals?" I asked, because more surprises, I so did not need.

"We felt it was better for me to return alone to make amends, as I was the one to, ah, incur your wrath." He almost laughed when he saidwrath .

"Alonzo, I am fond of Sophie as well," Sinclair commented.

Finally, the lurking smile was banished. Alonzo looked contrite. "I cannot undo the past, Majesties. If you will it, I shall seek out the lady and apologize. And make amends."

"Make amends how?"

"However you wish. My fate," he said simply, "is in your hands." I glared. "Stop being nice about it."

"Of course, as you wish. I shall endeavor to stop the niceness of my apology immediately."

Before we could go any farther down this insane road, there was a long, sonorousgong from the foyer, and I nearly groaned. The front door.

Terrific.

"You know what? I'll get it. You guys"—I motioned to Tina and Sinclair—"should Alonzo be strung up by his balls? Discuss."

"I would be against that particular course of action," I heard him say as I left the room.

My evil-o-meter must have been on the fritz, because I didn't realize it was my stepmother until I'd swung open the door (these old fashioned mansions didn't have any peepholes—something we probably should have rectified when we moved in).

She was holding my half brother, BabyJon, a chubby three-month-old infant who was squirming and wailing in her arms.

"You take him," she said by way of greeting. "He's just being impossible tonight, and if I don't get any sleep, I'll be awful tomorrow for the foundation meeting."

"It's not a good—" I began, then juggled the baby as she shoved him into my arms. "Antonia, seriously. This really isn't—"

She was backing down the front steps, wobbling on her high heels. If it hadn't stuck me with permanent baby duty, I would have wished her to fall down.

"He'll need to eat in another hour," she said. "But it's not like it's really an imposition, right? You'll be up all night anyway." She'd navigated the steps in her tacky brown pumps, and now she was practically running to her car.

"I'll pick him up tomorrow!" she yelled, and dove into her Lexus.

"It's not a good time!" I hollered into the spring night as gravel sputtered and tires squealed. BabyJon was chortling and cooing in my arms.

And—was that?—yep. Shitting. He was shitting in my arms, too.