Bad to the Bone

by Jeri Smith-Ready

“It must be, for me to notice. I’m not exactly the paragon of sensitivity.”

  He stares past my shoulder, hesitating before he speaks. “You know what the day after tomorrow is?”

  “Friday.”

  “All Souls’ Day.”

  “Is that when the Mexicans do the skull thing?”

  “The Day of the Dead, yeah.” He runs his finger over the uneven ridges of the bathroom doorjamb. “It’s the day vampires are supposed to visit their own graves. Like a pilgrimage.”

  I freeze in the middle of drying my hands. “You don’t have a grave.”

  “Not yet.” He raises his pale blue gaze to meet mine. “But there’s one I should visit.”

  I drape the towel over the rack. “You want to see your father?”

  Instead of playing it cool like usual, he comes right out and says “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll go.” I step close to him so he has to take me in his arms or be incredibly rude. “Friday night?”

  “Tomorrow. It’s an odd - numbered day, so Monroe, Spencer, and Jim are working again.” He runs a long golden - brown strand of my hair between his thumb and forefinger. “By the time we get to Youngstown, it’ll be near midnight, so it counts as November second.”

  “I admire you for being able to look at your past. Whenever mine comes up, I just blink really fast until it goes away.”

  He strokes my cheek with his fingertips. “This is the first time I’ve ever considered going home. I never felt capable before I met you.”

  I burrow my face into his neck and say nothing. Sometimes the ferocity of his need forces me to breathe deep to avoid passing out. I get the urge to make a lame joke, or excuse myself to go to the bathroom or the kitchen, or find a reason to cancel our next date. I get the urge to do something stupid with the next guy who crosses my path on campus.

  But I don’t do any of those things. Shane always backs off when I start having these thoughts, as if he can smell my fear. Sometimes our relationship feels like waltzing on a tightrope. One out - of - sync step and we’ll come tumbling down.

  In the meantime, I’m enjoying the view from such great heights.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Please? Just for one night?” I clutch my hands before me in the doorway of David’s office. “I’ll work overtime for free. You know, like I always do.”

  David glares up at me from behind his desk. “I hate dogs.”

  “How can you hate dogs? They’re man’s best friend. You’re a man.”

  “A man who was routinely hunted by the neighbor’s Doberman when I was seven.”

  “Dexter’s part black Lab, part Great Dane, I think—both gentle breeds. He’s totally chill, as Shane would say. He does everything I ask.” I look down and work my boot heel into a moth - eaten hole in his dark gray rug. “Except eat, but he’ll get over that. A lot of stray dogs don’t eat well at first. They’re nervous and scared and . . .” My voice trails off when I see David’s expression. “What?”

  “He didn’t eat dog food?”

  “I just told you that’s normal, and—”

  “He didn’t eat dog food, he’s preternaturally intelligent, and unlike Antoine, he’s not afraid of Jim.”

  My stomach grows tight with dread. “What are you saying? What’s wrong with my dog?”

  David checks his watch and mutters, “Five minutes until the next program.” Then he gives me a long look as he flips his ballpoint through his fingers, twirling it back and forth. I wait for him to reach the monumental decision he’s obviously contemplating.

  Finally he rolls his chair to reach the filing cabinet in the back corner of his cramped office. He slides out the squeaky bottom drawer.

  Uh - oh. That drawer has nothing to do with radio. As a former agent of the International Agency for the Control and Management of Undead Corporeal Entities (“the Control” for short), David has seen (and staked) his share of vampires. He knows a lot more about them than I do, because some of that information is classified. I’m on what he would call a need- to - know basis, and what I would call a don’t - want - to -know basis.

  David pulls out a thick green hanging folder and plops it on the desk so I can see the label.

  NECROZOOLOGY

  Crap. Apparently I need to know.

  “Vampire dogs.” David flips open the folder with the end of his pen. “They tried it with a few other animals, but so far it’s only worked with canids.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “The Control.” He glances around, as if his office is still bugged by the agency.

  “Should you be telling me this?”

  “If you have one in your apartment, yes.”

  I think about Dexter in my apartment, and the strength goes out of my legs. My butt slams the chair.

  “What’s wrong?” David says.

  “I found him in my closet this morning, buried under a pile of blankets. He wouldn’t come out, not for anything.” My chest turns cold. “Oh my God. Whoever tied him up wanted him to die when the sun rose. If we hadn’t found him—”

  “But we did, and you saved him. If it helps, vampire dogs aren’t vulnerable to things like holy water or crosses. Animals have no free will, so they’re morally neutral as far as religion is concerned. They’re pure instinct.”

  So much for All Dogs Go to Heaven. “Then why didn’t he try to eat me?”

  “Because vampires only drink the blood of their own species.”

  “So I have to feed him dog blood? They don’t carry that at PetSmart.”

  “The Control can probably provide it.”

  “We can’t tell them about Dexter!” I grip the edge of his desk. “They were probably the ones who tied him to the cross in the first place.”

  “Ciara, be reasonable.” He sits back in his chair and spreads his hands. “We have no evidence the Control is working with whoever built that thing. Dexter might’ve been stolen from the lab, or maybe he escaped. He’d be safer back with the people who know how to take care of his kind.”

  “No way.” I stand up and shove back my chair, catching its leg on the hole - y rug. “I’ll get my own dog blood.”

  David gives me a skeptical look, then glances at his watch. “I’ve got to get down to the booth and change the program. We’ll test Dexter after work and then decide what to do.”

  I carry the bulky Necrozoology folder back to my desk while David goes downstairs. Franklin’s on a sales call over at the other side of the main office we share. His voice shoots up an octave, and his tone lilts as he takes on his tres fey public persona.

  I plug my ears against his sales - queen routine and flip through the folder. Each page brings a new atrocity: vampire ferrets to be used as stealthy assassins that can slip through tiny cracks in the walls, vampire rats to spread diseases without succumbing to illness themselves. All superstrong, super-smart, and able to survive on a tiny amount of same - species blood.

  I slap the folder shut. The Control is capable of anything. I don’t want to bring them any deeper into my life.

  Which reminds me. I open a browser window on my computer and type my father’s name into the news finder, even though I have it set up to ping me with any articles that include the following terms: “Ronan O’Riley,” “Travellers,” “Irish Gypsies,” and “Double - Crossing Jerk Who Almost Got My Boss Killed.” Okay, maybe not that last one.

  No results. Not that I expect to read about my father’s fate in the news. To get early parole from federal prison, he worked as an undercover agent for the Control in the cult compound of Gideon Rousseau, a crazy - evil vampire who almost drained me dry. The only reason Gideon refrained from biting me was because my father had started working for him, too.

  To prove his new loyalty, my dad ratted David out for staking Gideon’s son and progeny, Antoine (the vampire, not the kitty). Dad’s treachery resulted in the death of my Control bodyguard, so if that agency ever finds him, they’ll dispense their justice in private.

  My stomac
h squeezes my breakfast at the thought. I’ve got to find him before the Control does and convince him to turn himself in to the FBI or some other authority that won’t kill him.

  The phone jolts me out of my morbid reverie. I close the browser window and answer the call with the rote WVMP Lifeblood of Rock ‘n’ Roll greeting.

  A young male voice responds. “Ciara, it’s Jeremy Glaser from Rolling Stone. I heard Shane’s broadcast last night. What did he mean by, quote, ‘We’re going to play female artists all day, one bitchin’ babe after another’?”

  I glance at Franklin, who’s still on the line with a client. “The signal - jamming only happens when we play women vocalists, or when Regina’s on.”

  “Wow. That’s fucked up.” He sounds like he needs to wipe the drool from his chin. Journalists.

  “I don’t know if it’s connected, but someone torched the Smoking Pig after our Halloween party.”

  “I heard. Do you have the original tape of the broadcast?”

  “Hell yeah. It’s evidence, in the unlikely event the FCC ever wakes up and investigates.” I give him a suspicious look, even though he can’t see me. “You want it, don’t you?”

  “Think about it, Ciara. If this keeps up, your ratings will go through the roof.”

  “Why would people tune in to hear some old fart read Scripture?”

  “The story isn’t what he’s saying. The story is the attack on women in an age when most people think sexism is dead.”

  “Hmm.” I run my fingernails over the edge of my lower lip. “You might have something here.”

  “So you’ll send me the tape? You agreed to give me an exclusive through the weekend.” When I hesitate, he adds, “This misogyny narrative could turn it into a huge story— maybe even worth a cover.”

  My hands curl around my pen. If it were a pencil, it would snap with my spasm of ambition.

  “Deal. I’ll send you a digital copy of the broadcast. It’s yours through the weekend, but Monday the mass press releases are going out. And you share with me any dirt on FAN you can dig up.”

  “Thanks. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  After I hang up, I search the internal network for the audio file of the piracy.

  “They want a culture war?” I murmur. “Well, here’s Private Griffin reporting for duty.”

  4

  Youngstown

  I pull into the quiet parking lot next to the Sherwood Animal Hospital. Next to the darkened door sits a small white metal box with a green laboratory logo.

  I stop the car. “Go for it.”

  Shane slips out into the darkness, silent as a shadow. I hope the lab workers haven’t picked up that day’s samples yet. I could’ve come myself before sunset, just after the office closed, but no one picks a lock like Shane.

  I circle around the back of the building, and before I even arrive out front again, Shane is at my passenger door. He lets himself in, and we peel out of the parking lot.

  “How much?” I ask him.

  He pats the pocket of his gray Steelers sweatshirt. “Ten vials of five cc’s each. Hope it’s enough.”

  “David’s file says they drink about five cc’s a day. It decreases by a milliliter every year they get older.” I glance at his pensive face in the dashboard light. “Did you leave the note?”

  “ ‘Dear Doctor: I’ve displaced all the canine blood in this receptacle. Please draw more for these tests and pass on my apologies to the dogs.’ “

  “Poor little puppers, having to get stuck again.”

  “You want me to put it back?”

  “Hell no.” Dexter’s survival could depend on it. Ends justify the means and all.

  David is waiting outside my home when we arrive. To my chagrin, my landlord, Dean, is inside the pawnshop under my apartment, even after closing time. Through the shop window I see him standing near the far shelf, probably doing inventory.

  I open the door to my apartment and flick on the stairwell light. Clawing noises come from the door at the top.

  “Hey, buddy,” I call out, struggling to keep my voice steady. David said vampire dogs don’t drink human blood, but maybe things have changed since he was in the Control. Maybe Dexter is the omnivorous T - 1000 version.

  No, I tell myself as I force my feet to follow Shane’s battered black Chuck Taylors up the stairs. If Dexter wanted to turn me into a meal, he would’ve done it last night in the tub.

  Shane opens the door, and Dexter is sitting in the middle of the hallway, giant red maw open in a smiling pant. He rushes forward when he sees me, and I grab the doorjamb to keep from fleeing.

  Dexter inserts his rough muzzle into my hand, begging for scritchies. I rub his ears. He groans and leans against my leg, eyes rolling up in his head in doggie ecstasy. Shane squats next to him and scratches his back. Dexter’s long thin tail whips so fast it creates a black blur.

  Suddenly the dog breaks away and stares at David, coming up behind me. Dexter backs up, the fur on his back ruffling into a second spine.

  “What’s wrong, boy?” I take a step forward, and he runs down the hall into the kitchen. “David, he knows you don’t like dogs.”

  Shane pulls two vials of blood from his sweatshirt pocket and hands them to David. “You do the honors. Make friends.”

  They follow me to my minuscule kitchen, where Dexter has crammed his butt against the corner cabinet. I pull the dog bowl out of the dish - drying rack while David pops the red rubber stopper off one of the vials. Dexter’s ears prick, and his nostrils quiver.

  David empties the blood into the cavernous bowl and sets it on the floor. Dexter leaps forward and shoves his face into the bowl.

  I cringe at the slurping sounds. “Gross. I mean, good boy.”

  Dexter cleans the bowl, then looks up expectantly at David, wagging his tail and licking his bloody chops.

  David appears oddly pleased. “You want another one?”

  Dexter lets loose a booming bark. We all share a horrified look. My landlord definitely heard that, unless he’s gone deaf. The dog barks again and again, his forepaws bouncing off the floor with each woof. The sound is loud enough to crack the windows—hell, maybe the building’s foundation.

  “Quick!” I grab David’s arm. “Give him more blood!”

  David fumbles with the vial’s stopper, and in his haste, the blood sprays across the floor, the cabinets, and my shoes.

  Dexter leaps for the life - giving liquid, claws scrabbling over the yellow linoleum. His happy huffs fill the air as he feeds, sucking up every drop of blood as efficiently as a wet - vac.

  We hold our breaths, waiting for the knock on the door. My landlord is roughly the size of Shane and David put together.

  Dexter finishes his second helping, then, instead of looking for a third, he waddles into the living room and steps up onto the couch.

  “I guess he’s full,” Shane whispers to me.

  “My landlord must have gone home.”

  Just then, a knock comes at the door. Not a knock exactly. The thudding makes the floor shake.

  “Shit.” I turn to the guys. “Keep him here.”

  I race down the hall and open the door at the top of the stairs. The pounding continues.

  “Coming!” I shut the door tight behind me, then trot down to greet what I hope is a Girl Scout or a Jehovah’s Witness or a tax collector. Anyone but my landlord.

  Sure enough, Dean is standing on the sidewalk, hands resting on either side of my doorframe. He’s the kind of man who commands respect at a glance—if it took only a glance to absorb his six - foot - seven - inch frame, the ace of spades tattoo atop his shaven head, and biceps the size of telephone poles.

  “Ciara,” he says in a near - whisper. “You have a dog.”

  I stare up into his ice blue eyes and consider telling him that the source of the booming bark was my television with Animal Planet cranked to the max. But there’s honor among pseudo - thieves.

  “It’s temporary. He’s just a stray. I swea
r I’ll get him into a kennel when they open tomorrow morning.”

  “Now.” He taps his fingers against the doorjamb above my head, clicking his thick silver rings against the aluminum frame. “Or you’re gone tomorrow night, as in a twenty - four -hour eviction notice.”

  “Dean, he hasn’t done any damage. He doesn’t chew. He’s housebroken.”

  “He’s loud.” Dean lays a thumb against his temple. “I have a migraine.”

  “Please.” I cross one foot behind the other and put my hands behind my back, making myself look small and un-threatening. “I’ve always been a good tenant, right? Paid the rent on time. Never complained about the way the electric outlets are a tragedy waiting to happen. Or considered reporting it to the proper authorities.”

  He steps back with a sigh and crosses his arms, which is barely possible over his enormous chest. “I’m coming back tomorrow at five p.m. If that dog’s not gone, I’m calling animal control, and you’ll be calling a moving company.”

  I let out a deep breath. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I promise you won’t—”

  A howl pierces the temporary peace. Something slams the door at the top of the stairs. I turn toward the noise and put out my foot to take the first step.

  The door bursts open in a shower of wood and brass. The doorknob bounces down the stairs, then past me onto the sidewalk. Followed by Dexter.

  “Holy shit.” Dean jumps back, almost to the street.

  I grab Dexter’s collar as he passes, bracing myself for a dislocated shoulder. But the dog stops, sits back on his haunches, and gives Dean a bloodchilling snarl.

  My landlord scurries to put the parking meter between himself and the dog. “Get that thing out, then start packing.”

  “I’ll find him a home.” I try to pull Dexter back, but his back claws have dug into a crack in the concrete sidewalk. “I’ll pay for the door. Just don’t evict me. Please, Dean, I have nowhere to go.”

  “That’s not my problem.” He points up at my apartment. “The lease is clear—no pets allowed. Not temporary, not strays, not even a fucking fish.”

  “Hey, that’s my dog!”

  Dean and I turn to see David standing on the street corner frantically waving a leash. He runs up to us, breathless, wearing a wide smile. He must have climbed down the fire escape on the other side of the building.