by J. F. Lewis
“Avez-vous mon baton?” Grandma asked. I barely made out her words over the screech and scrabble of my furry little diners.
“Oui, madame.” A single out-of-breath gargoyle gasped through clenched teeth. I couldn’t hear any others. Good job, Kitty.
Vermin parted to reveal Grandma, one end of a wooden baton in her hand. She had transformed back into her human form again, but her clothes were ripped and torn. Her hand shook as she approached, baton held like a dagger. She’d broken it into a rude approximation of a traditional stake. Her hands blurred as she jabbed it where she thought my heart would re-form.
Poor stupid Grandma.
With skeletal hands, I grabbed her wrist, pulling the stake directly into my waiting mouth, right through her own heart, which I’d been holding so carefully for so long.
My mouth opened wide and the clamped cardiac muscle (and intruding stake) fell free, only to be caught in my still skeletal phalanges.
“I bet you weren’t expecting that one, Grandma.”
Her body fell backward among the scattering rats with a sickening splurch. I tried to smile, but couldn’t, due to the lack of flesh. It produced an uncomfortable phantom sensation and perhaps, in the gullet of some rat or other, my severed cheek muscles twitched.
A lone remaining gargoyle stared as I pulled the tire iron from my cracked sternum, careful not to accidentally free Grandma’s memento mori, and stuck it down into Grandma’s still gaping chest cavity. My eye sockets flared red.
“Boo!” I took a step toward the gargoyle and it ran. With Grandma and her memento mori incapacitated, her hold over the crowd fell away and the screams started, first one, then another, and the crowd descended into panic.
I like screams . . . but they’re so expensive.
My fangs sank into Grandma’s heart once more and my flesh re-formed in a violent explosion of regenerative magic. I lifted Grandma’s body with one arm and headed down the street toward the concert, still gnawing at her heart-on-a-stick. Six blocks down, a police cruiser waited, sirens blazing, lights flashing. Talbot stood there next to Captain Stacey.
In Void City, vampires and other supernaturals have to pay “fang fees” if they pull stupid stunts the Veil of Scrythax can’t cover up on its own. Captain Stacey is the person who hands them out, and he’s a Mouser. He’ll even do “off the clock” jobs for the right price. Last year, Auntie Rachel had paid him off to help her capture New Mom and Talbot during the whole demon-trying-to-steal-Daddy’s-soul thing. He’s much more fun to be around when he’s just writing tickets and doing day job stuff. Captain Stacey pointed to a mage casting some sort of spell in the distance, and Talbot cringed. Both Mousers were shaking their heads. Talbot was writing out a check with a lot of zeroes in the amount.
Men and women in Public Works uniforms worked their way through the crowd, only a few of them bothering to look up at me as I approached. I dumped Grandma’s body next to the police car, holding the heart-on-a-stick in one hand and the memento-mori-on-a-tire-iron in my other.
Now all I had to do was wait until tomorrow so that I could read Grandma a third time and figure out the one true way to kill her.
“Hey, cool,” I said by way of greeting. “Do I get to ride in a police car?”
28
GRETA:
DEATH OF THE PARTY
An hour later, Grandma’s body, her still-staked heart, and her pinioned necklace were safely ensconced in Fang’s trunk. A dozen new pink “Welcome to the Void” baby-doll T-shirts sat on the back seat next to thirteen new shirts for Dad: ten black, two of the new white ones, and one royal blue, all purchased by Talbot from a lucky vendor. I was wearing one of mine along with a pair of low-rise jeans, decorative chains hanging from either side, a studded black belt, and a pair of pink Skechers. Talbot had sent Magbidion for my clothes when I’d decided I didn’t want to put the dress back on.
Magbidion, Talbot, and I stood in the front row, waiting for Winter’s set to begin. A thousand or more people crowded around the stage, some sitting on the grass, others in lawn chairs. Part of the grassy area at center stage had been cordoned off with blue velvet ropes overseen by a group of bouncers from the Artiste Unknown. Somewhere else in the city, maybe at the Highland Towers, maybe back at the Pollux, Lord Phillip wanted to speak with me again, but I didn’t care.
“Can I eat that guy over there? The one with the nummy looking tats?”
“Not if you want to see the show.” Talbot grabbed Magbidion’s arm and held his exposed forearm in front of my face. “Do you need to take a hit off Mags?”
“Hey. Ow.” Magbidion pulled halfheartedly against Talbot’s grip. “Damn it, Talbot.”
“No,” I said. Talbot released Magbidion’s arm. Mags breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Not from there.” And then I bit him. Sudden, hard, and fast, my fangs sank into Magbidion’s throat. He started, but didn’t struggle, so I kept things to a quick sip or two, following up with a bloody kiss on the cheek, leaving perfect red lip marks.
“Shit.” A shortish teen with tri-toned highlights and a leash in her hand gave the collared girl next to her a subtle tug. “We’re right next to a fucking vampire and her thralls.” Her taller, thinner girlfriend—the one on the leash—nodded, heart speeding up, part thrill, part fear.
“Do you think she knows Winter?”
“Ladies—” Talbot wanted to warn them away or move them along, but I liked them. They smelled like grassy fields, sweat, sunlight, and the ghost of perfume applied in the early morning hours and worn away by the day’s exertions.
“You like vampires?”
“Greta.” Talbot’s words had no wind to them, so dim they could have been a subvocalization. “I wrote a check for two million dollars to cover the excitement from earlier. Eric had that much liquid, but barely.”
“Shhh.” I hissed at him. “I know.”
Two million dollars is a whole lot of money, but when I told Dad I’d killed Lisette for him, ended her forever, he wouldn’t be mad. It was a great homecoming present.
Worried confusion flittered across the faces of the two foods . . . um, girls . . . young women.
“I asked you a question.”
They looked at each other, then answered together, “Yes.”
“Not lifestyle vamps.” I ran a finger along the hot pinkish skin on the shorter one’s neck and shoulders, leeching heat. “Real vampires?”
“Yes.”
Smooth, well-lotioned skin passed under my fingers, the tips picking up traces of oil. Wending my way across her skin, up along her face, and down the jawline, past her neck, my hand stopped at her chest to feel her heartbeat through the reddened skin.
This is what it feels like when the tiger is the lady, I thought, or when the tiger pets you. Short girl’s pet wanted to protest. Her tongue clicked in the back of her throat each time she began to speak, followed by the sound of teeth on teeth as she held her tongue.
“You have a sunburn.”
“Yeah. I forgot—”
“And a nice heartbeat.”
“Thanks.”
“But you’re fat.” I didn’t mean it as an insult exactly. She still lived. She could change. Just a fashion tip—like if you told someone they might look nice with a shorter hairstyle.
“I . . .” Eyes glistening, on the verge of possible tears, she reminded me of someone. Maybe Petey when I found him all hurt and mewling, before I turned him. Not Darla. Darla was never a crier. The girl on the leash was the one who reminded me of Darla . . . if Darla had grown up to be tall and thin. Making Petey and Darla had been my attempt at understanding the process, to know how Dad could care for me so much and then send me away for a year or so without ever even checking on me. I made them, I sent them away, and I haven’t checked on them. . . . I still don’t get it, but I keep trying.
“I’m not making fun of you.” I touched her cheek with my free hand. “You’re hoping to be a vampire one day, right?”
She nodded.
�
�Then you need to know about all of your physical flaws beforehand, so you can fix them, if you want to fix them.” I leaned close, my lips touching her ear as I spoke. “I used to be fat, but my sire refused to turn me until I was toned and in shape. He wanted me to be in a body I’d never regret having.”
She gave another slight nod, a subconscious one, and made a quiet “Oh.”
“Forever is a long time to fret about a few extra pounds.”
“Could you—” Leashed Girl spoke up. “I mean—” She looked away. “Are you looking for any new recruits?”
“I don’t know.” My answer was more for me than them—”We’ll see.” I didn’t really want any more kids, but supposedly if I made a thrall, well, Mags seemed to think it would help me sense Daddy, all the way from here to Paris.
“Are you serious?” They said it in unison.
“If you’re good. Thralls first and then—maybe—vampires.”
“Thralls?” Leashed Girl asked.
“Humans who take care of a vampire’s needs.”
“What kind of needs?” Chubby Girl asked.
“All of them.” I paused a beat while they exchanged looks that were equal parts trepidation and excitement. “I’m cold.”
“I could get you a jacket . . .” Leashed Girl looked back over the crowd and at her watch, the doubt that she could make it to wherever they’d parked the car and back before the concert clear in her eyes.
“That won’t help.” Talbot’s sudden utterance made the foods flinch. “Vampires don’t have sustained body heat. Jackets, blankets, and such only help you stay warm if you’re warm to begin with. They help you hold in your body heat.”
“But feeding warms them up, right?” asked Chubby Girl.
“Some, but they start cooling again immediately. So unless you’ve got a heating element in your jacket, it won’t do her any good.”
“I’m. Cold.”
“Um.” Chubby Girl maneuvered herself around so that her back was pressed against my chest. A gentle tug on the leash told Leashed Girl to press against my back as well. The doubled heartbeat brought out my fangs, twin flares of fleeting pain heralding the deployment.
“I’m Rita, by the way,” Chubby Girl said over her shoulder. “That’s Peg on the leash.”
“Don’t be silly.” I nipped her ear, drawing a single bead of blood. “I haven’t decided what to name you both yet, but it certainly isn’t Rita or Peg. Until I decide, I think I’ll call you Apples, and Leash Girl can be Oranges . . . so I can compare you better. After all, I may not want to keep both of you.”
Leash Girl . . . er, Oranges snuggled up more closely at that, nuzzling my neck. For all that she wasn’t as large as Apples, Oranges put off more heat. High blood pressure?
Making these two thralls might work out, I told myself. Daddy tends to take beautiful women who want to sleep with him, make them thralls, and then refuse to sleep with them. Lesbians were the obvious choice for me if I wanted to do the same. They would want to sleep with me, but I wouldn’t be inclined to have sex with them, because I don’t like girls. Simple.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket and I had Oranges fish it out.
“It says ‘Uncle Asshat,’” she said before holding it in front of me.
“Turn it off,” I told her. “And put it back in my pocket.”
I rested my head on Apples’ sunburned shoulders and smiled. If I were still human, I might be like these two, willing to offer myself to a stranger in the hope she might one day make me powerful and immortal. Daddy’d made me wait, but he hadn’t strung me along. My eyes closed. Warmth surrounded me. Sweat and people, damp grass, the smell of cigarettes and beer all rushed through my senses. Thousands of conversations and conflicting music from various iPods built a wall of sounds around me both welcome and uncomfortable.
Winter was backstage, feeding. Gentle sucking sounds signaled the act of feeding through a plasma bag, but it wasn’t human blood. Each time his lips left the tube, the smell reached me. Blood scent cuts through any other odors, a transcendent aroma. Cow’s blood. Microwaved cow’s blood! Why did he bother with animal blood when I knew he had thralls?
“Ow . . . um . . . Mistress?” Apples spoke, breaking my concentration, and the wall of sound tumbled as my senses contracted.
“What?”
“Your fingernails.” Breasts make good hand warmers, and I’d been unconsciously cupping hers.
“Oh, my claws extended.” I retracted them, the process unsettling but not painful, a phantom crawling of the nail bed. “Better?”
“Yes.”
Winter hit the stage and the roar deafened me. There was no fanfare. No buildup. The spotlight hit center stage and he walked out into the light with a measured strut. He wore a white headset mike and said nothing. He stood. Waited. And the crowd grew louder. Apples and Oranges joined in, but not me. I’d always suspected Winter of using some kind of power to elicit this kind of reaction, but I couldn’t feel one. They loved him. The living, the dead, and the “other” all worshipped him.
“Tonight—” The word was washed away by a cheer. Winter narrowed his gaze, cleared his throat once, and a hush fell over the crowd. “Tonight, I’ll be doing something I never ever do. Tonight . . . I’ll be taking requests from the audience.”
The crowd roared.
“I’ll be taking requests”—he spoke over the crowd, and they silenced themselves for him again—“but only from people who’ve done something very interesting today. Something weird or dangerous. Something touching or the very embodiment of hilarity. Andre will be waiting at the side of the stage with a microphone. But for the first two songs, I want a show of hands.”
Thousands of hands went up, mine among them.
Winter’s eyes sparkled like sapphires when he saw me.
“Void City’s very own Greta Fleischman.”
I hate it when people use my old last name.
“And what have you done this evening?”
“I ripped out my grandma’s heart and ran a wooden stake through it!”
He beamed. Chuckles made their way through the crowd amid cries of “Bullshit” and “Me too” and “What did she say?”
“You’ll sing anything?”
“Anything you want to hear, but it has to be a good song. One of mine or a classic.”
“‘Thriller!’”
He froze. It’s something vampires who are really vampires can do. Go completely still, inside ourselves. “Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’?”
“That or David Bowie’s ‘ The Laughing Gnome’!”
“‘ Thriller’ it is, but if I’m going to sing it, then I’m going to do the dance.” Hoots and hollers rose up from the crowd. “And if I’m going to dance it”—he pointed at the crowd starting at the left and sweeping right—“then you all have to dance it. And you’ll have to be good or I won’t take any more requests. Can you do it?”
They could, or they were willing to try. They’d do anything for him as long as he was onstage. Some performers are like that. Winter called a group of us up onstage to go through the dance routine and teach it to the crowd while he brought in the band one member at a time.
Before he started singing, Winter pulled me aside with a gesture, covering his mike with his hand. “You picked ‘Thriller’ to embarrass me?”
“No.” I looked him in the eye, daring him to check. “It and ‘ The Laughing Gnome’ are my two favorite songs. Next would be the theme songs to Scooby Doo and Sesame Street.”
“I believe you,” he said after a moment, his composure seeping back in. “I truly do, so I’ll tell you something. Phillip has been trying to contact you tonight, yes?”
I nodded.
“You don’t take down an Emperor in Void City without getting his attention. He’ll want you to give Lisette to him. He’ll offer you a lot of money or favors or both for her.”
“And you want me not to do it?”
“I won’t say what I want, but I will say this, mak
e him tell you why he wants her before you agree or disagree. Do that and I won’t hold your song choices against you.”
I shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Is that a ‘yes’?” His eyes blazed red.
“Sure. Yes.”
Talbot and my two foods came up onstage and Talbot read the Vincent Price part. It was the coolest version of “Thriller” I ever heard, and when Winter followed it up with “The Laughing Gnome,” my heart sank. What did Winter think was going to happen? Why did he think he needed to sing both of my favorite songs when he so obviously didn’t want to? The only reason I could think of was that he wanted to be on my good side or wanted me to put in a good word with Daddy.
In his final set, Winter sang a medley of the Sesame Street theme song and the theme to Scooby Doo. A chill moved over me, bringing with it an abnormal sense of dread. What did Winter know that he wasn’t going to tell me? And why was he sucking up? Then and there, I made up my mind. I’d go see Uncle Phil tomorrow, after I killed Grandma.
29
TALBOT:
OTHER PEOPLE’S MESSES
So what do we do now?” The dumpy faux redhead with control issues (the one Greta was calling Apples) stared at me with bleary eyes. Her taller, more attractive companion (Oranges?) snored softly, legs curled awkwardly to keep them from dangling off the edge of the circular sofa upon which she lay.
“Get some sleep.” I paced the tiles in the salon-style sitting area outside the men’s and women’s restrooms in the downstairs area below the lobby and concession space in the Pollux. “Get Magbidion to show you how to tuck Greta in tomorrow morning once she’s had a chance to introduce you to Fang.”
“Fang?”
“You’ll just have to meet Fang. There’s no explaining him until you’ve met him.” I flipped off the lights, purposefully allowing my cat’s eyes to gleam yellow-green in the dark. “You can use this space for the day. The more private rooms all have Eric’s thralls or me in them.”
