I made it from Summit to Cow Town in forty minutes. It was a twenty-mile drive, but as usual I had a raging thirst and required a Caribou Coffee mixer (half white chocolate hot chocolate, half milk chocolate hot chocolate, double whipped cream) to suck down so I wouldn't snap from the pressure to eat Mom's neighbor(s). So when I hopped out of my hybrid (yeah, I went green when I could, what are you doing for the environment?) SUV (it was a small one, a Ford Escape, so back off and, also, sometimes vampires needed to haul things) I was clutching my keys in one hand and my hot chocolate in the other.

Which was why I almost spilled scalding liquid all over myself, because my mom was right: Sinclair had brought Fur and Burr over and they were playing with BabyJon and Mom's boyfriend, Cliiiiiive, was joining in the fun and it looked like a beer commercial, except with a baby and two puppies.

Gah.

My mom had seen me hurtle around the corner (any faster and I'd have been up on two wheels, like an undead cast member of The Dukes of Hazzard), so she'd gotten out of her lawn chair (lawn chairs, outside, in December: a tremendous idea if you're actively seeking frostbite) and came to meet me as I tromped down the icy sidewalk. She hugged me, which I half returned, juggling a bit so as not to spill hot milk down her back, then she whispered, "I never thought I'd say this about your forbidding husband, but he's adorable!"

I groaned.

"What?" She broke the hug and pulled back to look at me. "You don't like it?"

I made a rage-sigh-grumble noise.

"Well." Mom glanced at the vampire, the puppies, the toddler, and Clive Lively. "I know you're not a dog girl, but you must love seeing Eric so-so-" She groped for the word.

"Un-vampire-king-like?"

"Exactly. You and I could never know him in life, but I think perhaps this is how he was. Oh." She squeezed my arms and gave me a "buck up, li'l buckeroo!" shake. "I admit it's not what you're used to, but I think it's lovely."

And you will, I thought but didn't say, right up until something awful happens and we'll need a ruthless badass to fix it and he'll be at a Puppies 'n' Me class.

"He should have called before barging-"

"He did, and it isn't barging. He's my son-in-law, probably the only one I'll ever have-"

I raised my eyebrows. "Probably?"

"-and he's family." A light breeze kicked up, ruffling my mom's silvery white curls. She was young-she'd gotten knocked up with me a month after high school-but she'd had white hair since her teens. She and I had occasionally been mistaken for sisters, which she loved and I loathed. Nothing against my cute mom, but hearing "Hey, you two, wanna help me with my sex sandwich?" was enough to put me off sandwiches for six months. The fact that my mom laughed so hard she would have stumbled into traffic if I hadn't grabbed her arm made it all the more surreal.

Here was another contradiction: my mom had little old lady hair and the smiling, unlined face of a moisturizer model, bright blue eyes, and a soft-spoken manner, and she'd had to kick plenty of men out of her way. She'd wrestled a PhD from academia stiffs while raising me almost on her own (even before my dad left her, he'd been a big fan of long business trips). She'd kept the acrimony out of her divorce for my sake as much as she could, while also refusing to go back to her maiden name. "It's mine," she'd sweetly explained to the judge. "Even if the man no longer is, the name still belongs to me and will always belong to me. I decline to return to my maiden name, sir."

Yep. She'd put it everywhere: Dr. Taylor; Professor Taylor; Ms. Elise Taylor, PhD. Business cards, personal and business correspondence, PowerPoint presentations, articles for The Civil War Monitor, lectures, journal articles: Dr. Elise Taylor. Due to the force of her will and my stepmother's cowardice when it came to face-to-face confrontation, most people referred to my father's second wife as exactly that: "Antonia Taylor... you know, the second Mrs. Taylor."

Heh.

(Yes, I could be a vindictive jerkass, but I came by it honestly. Also, the Ant had it coming. All of it. And plenty more that she didn't get. But that's a piss-and-moan session for another day.)

All that to say my mom was not one to be fucked with. So I chose my next words carefully (for me).

"I like seeing him happy, but it makes me nervous. I don't know why. It's not the dogs. I don't think it's the dogs."

"You're supposed to be the embarrassing partner in need of rescue," my mother pointed out with terrifying accuracy. "It's the king's job to be strong in the face of all calamity, to keep control, to be ruthless when the situation warrants. Not..." She pointed at the side yard, where Sinclair was lining up Fur and Burr for some sort of relay race involving rawhide bones for batons. "That."

I shook my head. "No, that's not it."

"No?"

"No, because that makes me the opposite of a feminist and also comes off as needy and insecure."

"Which is a problem because..."

"No one can know how needy and insecure I am."

"Ah." Her smile broadened and I laughed; I couldn't help it. "There, now." She leaned in and dropped a kiss to my cheek, smelling like fabric softener and Jergens. "There's my very own girl."

"Oh, hey! Betsy! Hi!"

Blech. Clive Lively was hailing me. This will sound awful but here it is: my two biggest regrets of the changed timeline were no more Christian Louboutin, and my mom had a boyfriend now. You know how the birds-and-bees talk with your parents can suck for every party involved? Try the "maybe you should dump him since the only reason you have a boyfriend is because I mucked with the timeline and hasn't enough damage been done?" talk.

"Hi, Mr. Lively."

"Please." He huffed a little as he jogged over to us. "It's Clive. Mr. Lively is my long-dead alcoholic father."

How could I forget? Cliiiiiive. I managed a chilly smile and faked a cough so I wouldn't have to shake his hand. Never think I wasn't aware of my gross pettiness. I was, but I was also aware I had no choice. He couldn't help being batshit nutball. Same with me.

"The lovely day lacked only your presence, my own." Sinclair had scooped up Burr and Fur before they could try to climb me. Clive had trotted over with BabyJon in tow, who smiled to see me, which showed his four teeth. (BabyJon's, not Clive's. Clive had a full set of choppers as far as I could tell.)

When you saw them together, it was a little hilarious since Clive looked like a giant baby. He had cut his wispy brown hair into a monk's fringe and had the soft body men in their fifties sometimes grow into. He was puffy, not fat, with pale, watery eyes and the kind of mouth that turned up even when he wasn't smiling. He looked as threatening as a row of lettuce. Which pissed me off, and I know that doesn't make sense. I dunno; I could count on one hand how many men Mom had dated since the divorce. She seemed to like Cliiiiiive more than the others put together. That also pissed me off, and I knew that also didn't make sense.

"It sure was nice meeting your husband," Cliiiiiive said, handing over BabyJon, who'd begun to reach for me. I took my brother/son/whatever and hugged him, and he honked my nose for my pains, shaking with baby giggles. "We've been having a fine old time."

A fine old time? Sinclair accurately read my mood, as he jumped in with, "Yes, your mother has been a wonderful hostess." He turned to her. "I must thank you again for not holding my unannounced visit against me."

Mom waved it away. "I would have been mad if I'd heard you were in the neighborhood and hadn't stopped by. We've worn out the baby so much he'll sleep for twenty hours."

Really? I eyed Cliiiiiive, who certainly looked well rested. Maybe he took a lot of naps. Oh-she meant the little baby. That was good, too.

"But I thought you couldn't get him until tomorrow," Mom continued.

"Yeah, but my schedule cleared up..." And my husband went insane. ". . . so I figured I'd surprise you." You and the giant baby you're dating. "And here I am." So like it or lump it, jerks.

BabyJon shrieked in my ear and kicked, his solid little pork-chop-with-toes feet swinging into my belly. Mom had him warmly dressed in a li'l turtleneck, li'l sweatpants, li'l coat, and li'l socks and shoes. His black hair was sticking up all over, looking like wind-mussed feathers, and that, plus his darting movements and cute caw-caw laugh made him look and sound like a crow in diapers. His eyes, a round perfect Gerber Baby blue, met mine and then crinkled as he crowed another giggle.

BabyJon was one of those insidious babies who trick childless couples into having kids. They'd be around him and notice his sunny mood, how he never turned down a bottle or three, and his deep sweet sleeps, and tell themselves, how hard can it be?

I had a soft spot for him; he was the only child I would ever have. Here's the pesky thing about biology: if you don't menstruate, you don't ovulate; if you don't ovulate, you don't get pregnant. I'd gone to my grave the first time thinking I had years to settle down, and accepting the fact that I would never be a natural mother was almost as hard as accepting there would be no more prime rib dinners for me, either.

"You sure can tell you're his mom," Cliiiiiive was yakking. "Look at the resemblance."

A) I'm not his mother. B) But I am an inarticulate fatty with messy hair who shits in my pants when I'm not drooling all over myself? (Actually that perfectly describes me at Homecoming my freshman year at the U... after that night I was never able to stand ginger ale, vermouth, and chocolate milk.)

"You have the exact same smile!"

Was I smiling? Revolted, I put my hand over my mouth even as I glowed a little at the compliment. Cliiiiiive was a clever bastard, defeating me with my own vanity. It was a huge weapon! Like, nuclear huge.

"And he sure likes you, huh?"

Why couldn't he be evil? It was actually pretty selfish of him to not be evil. "Oh, well..." I decided to smile and then remembered I was smiling. Oh, he was a clever prick! "We're sibs. I'm not his mom, except legally kind of." Long story. The recap is incomprehensible and weird: cursed engagement ring, garbage truck, double funeral, viola! It's a boy. But I didn't feel like telling Cliiiiiive the whole story. It was none of his business, for one thing. Also, it was none of his business.

"Ah, my boy." Sinclair reached for his half-brother-in-law/stepson, but BabyJon was having none of it. "Plehhh!" he said, or something like it.

Not at all put out, Sinclair extended his hand and Cliiiiiive shook it. "I have imposed on you long enough. I thank you again for your hospitality. And my apologies for the, er, deposits the puppies made for you."

Depos-? Oh. Gross.

"Have you heard from Laura?"

"Yeah!" My mood instantly brightened. "She came over to yell."

Mom closed one eye, thinking. "Singing telegram?"

"Balloon bouquet."

"Ah. A lucky thing I didn't bet on the outcome. I've seen her. She was here a couple of days ago."

"Laura comes here? To visit you?" Okay, that was a little odd, but it's not like I owned my mom or anything. (My mommy! Laura's got her own-oh. Right.) Now that I thought about it, it made sense. Laura had a soft spot for moms; she was always looking for one who wasn't pure evil (Satan) or generally inclined toward evil (the Ant). Still, Mom was... well... mine, dammit.

Oh, sure. Because this is the perfect time to get possessive about something so silly.

My inner voice was such a bitch sometimes.

Mom's next words were blowing my theory: "Not to see me. To see BabyJon." She took in the look on my face and added gently, "He's her brother, too, Betsy. And she-ah-she's not quite-"

"She doesn't want to see him if it means seeing me."

"That's right," she said simply. Not one to try for polish when straight truth suited all parties. "She doesn't."

"Fine, but then she should stay away from my mommy!" I heard myself and scrambled for damage control. "Because you're busy with your own stuff. Journal articles and baby-sitting and of course you've got Clive here, you've got a demanding social life. It's pretty selfish of her to barge in on that. Clive is your everything!"

"Good God," my mom snapped. Then, at once: "I'm sorry, Eric."

Not even my mom spraying him with verbal acid by saying "God" could put a damper on his day. "Not at all, Dr. Taylor. My Elizabeth does it with terrifying frequency."

"That's not the only thing I'll do to you with terrifying frequency," I mumbled to the frosted grass. At least Clive wasn't getting an earful. I don't know what story Mom told him (maybe that Sinclair was born again-wouldn't that be hilarious!), but he didn't blink. Okay, he did, but it wasn't a meaningful blink. He was just lubricating his eyeballs.

Mom was making her tsk-tsk face. "So when it suits your purpose you embrace Clive."

"'Embrace' might not be the right word." I eyed Cliiiiiive out of the corner of my eye and was surprised to see he was eyeing me, too. And: eww. "'Embrace' is definitely not the right word. But between Mr. Lively and

(his fervid sexual demands on my poor frail mother)

BabyJon, you're pretty busy. That's all I was trying to say."

"Sure it was. Speaking of babies, when are you throwing the baby shower?"

"Huh?" I'd always hated that phrase. It made me think it was actually showering babies.

"Jessica. She's due any day, right?"

"Oh, heck no." Just like my mom to start bugging me to plan stuff way ahead of time.

"She has several months to go," Sinclair agreed.

My mom's smile faded and she looked from me to Sinclair to me again. "You're kidding, right? Teasing me? She's got to be due any day-I was a little surprised you let it go this long."

"Due any-" I shook my head. "Mom, she's maybe six weeks along."

"Or twenty months," Sinclair added.

"Right." I shrugged. "Either way, nothing we need to worry about right this minute."

There was a long silence, broken by BabyJon's crowed, "Yaarrgg mehn ma!"

"All right," I told him. "We're going already." I tried to take a mental inventory of the nursery. Plenty of diapers, yep. Wipes, uh-huh. Jars of creamed crap, check. Huh. Even though I wasn't supposed to get him back until tomorrow, I could actually take him today. It was almost like I was a real mom and everything.

"Betsy-Eric-" My mom cut herself off and for a few seconds her mouth opened and closed to no avail. BabyJon, sensing her mood, put his arms out to her so quickly he nearly toppled out of my grip. She took him at once and he chuckled at her and grabbed a fistful of white curls. "I think you-I think there's something wrong."

"No, it's okay. There's plenty of diapers at the mansion." For the moment, BabyJon had forgotten all about me, engrossed as he was in trying to ease my mom's weird distress.

I wouldn't lie to myself: it hurt to see BabyJon so happy with her. But I'd eat my own tongue before saying anything. For one thing, I should be glad my li'l bro had someone in his life who loved him and cared for him. For another, the whole thing was my fault, anyway. If I wasn't always dumping him on Mom, he'd love me, too. This was my only real chance to be a mom... and I was blowing off the work.

To be fair, there was often a disaster du jour that demanded I drop everything and dart off into the night; vampire queens weren't built for maternal crises. And it had started as asking my mom for baby-sitting favors I knew she was reluctant to take on. BabyJon was a living symbol of the shipwreck that was her marriage. But she'd known there was nothing to be done about it unless we wanted to have a chat with Social Services. The mere thought would have given me night terrors if I still dreamed. "Excuse me, but according to this paperwork you're dead. The State of Minnesota frowns on dead people for guardians. Also, your status as a corpse brings up a few other questions, so why don't you have a seat?"

So it had started as an annoying chore, but BabyJon's pretty irresistible, and after a while she was offering to take him for a day here or an overnight there before I asked. Since I altered the timeline, she liked having BabyJon over for his own sweet self, not to do any favors. I wondered if she felt the way I did-that maybe this was her only chance to be a grandmother, however strange the circumstances, so she went from grudging to resigned to loving.

For the first time in a long time, I thought about my late father and wondered what he'd think about his son by his new wife being essentially raised by his ex.

His new wife. Brrrr. Now was not the time to think about the Ant, she of the pineapple hair (color and texture) and utter lack of class. And when someone like me is commenting on someone else's lack of class, that's how you know it's really, really bad.

I gave myself a brisk internal shake. "Listen, we'll get out of your hair. We've got to-"

"You know what?" My mom cut me off. "Could I keep him one more night, as planned? Then I'll drop him off tomorrow. I'd like to see Jessica for myse-I'd like to visit for a while. If that's convenient."

Not only that, but courageous.

I glanced at Sinclair; his thought had come through loud and clear. Once upon a time, I couldn't read minds. Then I could read Sinclair's, but only during sex. Then I could read him at other times. Then he could read mine. We chalked it up to being an undead monarch thing. We could nearly always hear each other if one or both of us was thinking really hard. But I'd caught that stray thought with no trouble; it was like a bubble had popped up out of nowhere. You're surprised it's there, but you know why it's there, so it's okay.

Considering that the last time she visited she was faced with Zombie Marc and Ancient Me, yeah, courageous is the word.

Aloud: "Sure, Mom; like I said, we didn't mean to mess with your plans or anything. And Jess would love to see you. And we could talk-" I looked at Cliiiiiive. "We can catch up."

So we agreed and said our good-byes and BabyJon was thrilled to be staying and hardly fussed when we left, and all the time my mom had this strange, distracted smile on her face, a smile that never climbed behind her eyes.

Well. Dating Cliiiiiive would probably distract me, too. The important thing was, I was there for her. And stood ready to beat him to death the minute he, I dunno, did something I didn't like.

Prob'ly wouldn't be long.