“You found him!” He snaps the leash onto Dexter’s collar. “I’ve been searching for days. How can I ever thank you?”
I put my hands on my hips. “Well, sir, he broke my door, and my landlord here wants to evict me.”
David looks up into my apartment and winces. “I’ll pay for all the repairs, plus an extra hundred for your trouble. I’m just so glad I got my buddy back.” He squats next to Dexter, who licks him on the mouth.
I turn to Dean. “So can I stay?”
My landlord narrows his eyes at each of the three of us in turn. With horror I notice a drop of blood on Dexter’s chin. I wipe it off with a tissue from my jacket pocket.
“Heh.” I crumple the tissue in my hand. “Looks like a drooler.”
Dean points his two forefingers at me. “If you ever bring another animal into that apartment, you’re evicted. No notice. No security deposit refund.”
“No animals, ever. I promise.”
David wraps the end of the leash tight around his wrist. “Come on, Dexter, let’s go home.”
I tense, fearing the dog will balk. When David tugs on the leash, Dexter tilts his enormous head to look up at me.
“Go on,” I whisper. “Have a good life.”
He turns and trots alongside David down the sidewalk, occasionally throwing an adoring gaze at his new owner, the guy who brought him blood.
Shane comes out of the apartment and gives Dean a casual nod and a “Hey.” He puts his arm around me, squeezing my shoulder as we watch my new best friend walk out of my life.
The trip to Youngstown has a party feel for the first three hours. Shane and I play all our mutually favorite CDs. I keep myself awake with a series of cinnamon - carpeted mochaccinos from Pennsylvania Turnpike rest stops.
Once we pass Pittsburgh, though, Shane grows quieter, and my excitement takes the form of having to pee.
To distract both of us, I ponder out loud the four - legged mystery that is Dexter the Dog.
“Why do you think out of the three humans we’ve seen him meet, Dexter only liked me, at least initially?”
“Because you’re a dog person?” Shane looks at me from the passenger seat. “Or maybe the vampire in him sensed your anti - holy nature.”
I grip the steering wheel at the reminder of my secret “specialness”—secret, at least, to those who weren’t at David’s house the day I accidentally healed Shane’s holy-water burns with a mere taste of my blood. If anyone other than Lori and the WVMP staff discovered I had this power, I’d turn into a walking pharmacy for vampires.
I tell myself it’s my devout skepticism that kills the magic of holy water, but it’s hard to know for sure without controlled experiments. Any experiment that involves me losing blood is an automatic non - starter.
“It must be the dog - person thing,” I tell him, “because David said vampire animals aren’t affected by holy substances, since they’re morally neutral.”
I bite my lip as soon as the words leave my mouth, realizing the implication: that vampire humans like Shane are evil, a notion I personally think is bullshit. Just because the church is against them doesn’t make them bad. I’ve known enough shifty preachers (like my parents) to know that morality isn’t always on the side of the folks wielding Bibles.
After a long pause, Shane says quietly, “Yeah, that makes sense.” His voice’s sadness shrivels my heart.
It’s past midnight when we cross the Ohio border near Youngstown.
“The cemetery’s on the other side, off the interstate,” he says. “But if you want to see what my hometown is like . . .”
“Would you like me to drive through the city?”
He taps his fingers on the window as he decides. “Just down the main drag. Not back to the neighborhood.” He adds under his breath, “Maybe next time.”
Shane directs me through the downtown area. I don’t know what I thought I’d see in the city the steel companies abandoned in the seventies. Was I expecting gang wars? Post-apocalyptic burned - out buildings? Mothers weeping openly on street corners?
Other than the bars near the university, the city seems pretty dead at this hour—but sleepy dead, not slit - wrist dead. Most of the buildings are boxy, mid - twentieth century utilitarian, but a few soar above the skyline with an older, grander ambition. The main street is lined with small leafless trees that have already been decorated with white Christmas lights.
“Lot better than I remembered it,” he whispers.
I feel a pang of jealousy. Shane has a hometown, he comes from somewhere. Until I was sixteen and in foster care, I never stayed in the same spot for more than two weeks. My stint in Sherwood is like an eternity at six and a quarter years, but it’ll never be where I’m from. There is no such place.
To our surprise, the Catholic cemetery’s large iron gate stands wide open. A marquee sign reads NOVEMBER1– 2: OPEN ALL NIGHT FOR ALL SOULS’ OBSERVANCE.
I turn into the driveway, and Shane points out several cars parked near graves. “I guess the immigrant population has gone up, and they’ve gotten tired of chasing people out.”
“Wouldn’t most people just come during the day?”
“They’re probably shift workers. Youngstown has always had all - night businesses, going back to the steel mill days.”
We park next to the cemetery’s main office, a squat marble building.
Inside, the lobby is lit with a dimmed chandelier and a scattering of cream - colored candles. Behind a high desk, a middle - aged man in a black suit and white shirt greets us with a polite smile. He’s short, plump, and tan, with a set of rimless eyeglasses—hardly the pale, lanky hunchback I was expecting.
Shane approaches the desk. “Hi. Uh, I’m looking for Evan McAllister. His grave, I mean.”
“Of course.” The attendant taps a few keys on his computer. “Is that Mick or Mack?”
“Mick. With two L’s.” He shoves his hands inside his sweatshirt pockets. “Evan is spelled—”
“Here it is. Section seven, row six, number four.” He pulls out a map of the cemetery and draws the route with a pencil.
Shane gives the attendant a quick nod. “Thanks. I know the way. Looks like he’s near my grandparents.” He turns and heads for the car, shoulders hunched, hands never leaving his pockets.
I peer through a door on the opposite side of the lobby. “Are there bodies back there?” I ask the man.
“It’s the mausoleum, yes.”
“ ‘Kay, thanks.” I hurry after Shane, trying not to run. The moment we’re in the car, my fingers fumble for the electric lock switch. They snap shut, and I let out a heavy breath.
Shane notices the locks. “Are you scared?”
I squeeze the steering wheel. “I’ve never been in a cemetery before.”
He stares at me. “How is that possible?”
“My mom’s mom died when I was two, and we never drove back to South Carolina to visit her grave. My dad’s side wanted nothing to do with us after he left his wife to run away with my mom.”
Shane shrugs at our surroundings. “We came here almost every Sunday after Mass. My parents had big families, and some aunt or uncle or cousin was always having a birthday or death -iversary or whatever.” He points to the gear shift. “Can we go?”
“Sorry.” I shove it into drive and pull into the lane, tires squealing. A horn honks. I wave an apology to the passing car and give a nervous laugh. “Heh. If I got killed here, at least I’d have a short trip to the funeral.”
“Relax.” He puts his hand over mine on the gear shift, the wool of his fingerless gloves scratching my chapped skin. “Not that it matters, but you couldn’t be buried here, since you’re not Catholic.”
Easing down the lane at the posted five miles per hour, we pass a Mexican family spreading out a picnic blanket. “Is this where you would’ve been buried?” The last word flutters, my breath catching at the thought of his truly dead body.
“Yeah. There used to be a rule that suicides couldn’
t be interred on hallowed ground, but they changed it.”
The silence stretches out, until I can’t hold back my question. “Did you leave a note?”
He snorts. “It was pathetic. Regina saved me that embarrassment after she made me. We burned it before we moved to Pittsburgh.”
“What did you tell your family?”
“Nothing. I just left.”
Cutting all ties—one of the downsides of becoming a vampire. “By order of the Control.”
“Not exactly. The Control likes vampires to burn our bridges, not leave them to rot. Skipping town is messy and causes missing - person searches.” He shifts his too - long legs under my dashboard for the thirtieth time. “Finally the Control stepped in and got my family off my trail.”
“How?”
“My dad and I pretty much hated each other. I wasn’t the son he wanted, and he wasn’t the father I wanted, since I would’ve preferred someone who wasn’t a total shithead.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” I cram down my own resentment and keep listening.
“We hadn’t spoken in years. So the Control forged my handwriting in a note to my father, asking him to come see me before one of my gigs, saying I want to make peace. He and Mom showed up and found me with a lap full of Regina.” He rubs the side of his jaw. “And probably a table full of drugs, I don’t remember.”
“I bet Regina and your folks hit it off like old friends.”
He grunts. “Yeah. Thirty seconds after they walked in, she and my dad were writing whole new dictionaries of profanity.” He runs his fingertips along the seal of the passenger - side window. “My mom didn’t say anything. She just cried.” He points up ahead. “Turn right. We’re almost there.”
I obey, fighting the impulse to drive the car straight through the wrought-iron fence. “So that was that?”
“That was that. Another Control mission accomplished. I never heard from my family again.”
Until two months ago, as I recall, when Shane’s sister called the station to tell him that their dad had terminal cancer and wanted to see him one last time. Colonel Lanham, our main contact at the Control, said no way, not even a phone call. I think Shane was relieved. He never talks about it.
“We’re here,” he says.
I pull to the side of the lane, and we get out of the car. The light from the newly risen quarter moon makes it easy to see which grave is Evan McAllister’s. The soil is freshly turned, still lumpy and grassless six weeks after he died.
Shane closes the car door softly, then pulls up his hood— probably more for privacy than warmth.
I hurry after him, hugging my arms. My eyes flick back and forth, and I regret not having another set in the back of my head. I don’t believe in ghosts or zombies with my cerebral cortex, but the lizard brain at the base of my skull turns my blood to ice at the thought of dead bodies under my feet.
I join Shane to stand at the foot of Evan’s grave, our toes an inch away from the dug soil. The moonlight glistens on the gray marble headstone.
Something moves in the corner of my eye. My neck twitches, and I see two women, their heads covered by thick hoods to ward off the cold breeze. One of them carries a big wreath looped over her arm. She watches as the other woman lays bouquets of flowers on select graves, crosses herself, then plants a quick kiss on each headstone.
I look up at Shane, whose eyes are closed. I wonder how I’d feel if my own father died. I suppose I’d be sad and angry and relieved, and everything in between.
Shane gets on one knee and reaches out as if to touch the soil. Then he yanks his hand back and tucks it under his other arm. I wonder if the ground is consecrated, if it would burn him like holy water. The two women move closer.
Wind rattles the leafless branches of a nearby tree, and it sounds like the bones of skeletons assembling themselves, ready to rise and greet us. Fallen leaves skittering across the blacktop make me think of corpses clawing the insides of their coffins.
I draw in a deep breath through my nose to calm my pounding pulse. A cemetery is a bad place to have an active imagination.
The women stand a few rows away from us. Shane remains kneeling with his head bowed, though I’m sure his sensitive ears can hear them.
I look up to see the younger woman, the one with the wreath, staring at us. She taps the older woman on the shoulder, interrupting a moment of prayer. They confer for a moment, then the wreath - carrier stalks over.
“Who are you,” she says, “and what are you doing at my father’s grave?”
Shane stiffens. His head jerks up, and he stares at me, eyes sparking with panic.
Busted.
“Let’s go,” I whisper. “We can make it if we run.”
He slowly stands and turns to her, pulling back his hood.
“Hey, Eileen.”
The woman drops the wreath. Her hand flies to her mouth.
“Shane?” The older lady runs forward, stopping a few feet away. “Shane, it’s you. It’s really you.”
His face crumples, and his voice cracks. “Mom . . .”
She stumbles the last few steps and flings herself into his arms. He clutches her tight, murmuring incoherent noises of comfort and contrition.
“Shane, let me see you.” His mom holds his face between her palms. “Sweet Mary, you’re more handsome than ever.”
I look at Eileen, who, despite the tear tracking her cheek, glares at her brother with undisguised hostility. The breeze spills her curly hair over the lowered hood of her coat, and the moonlight shines on streaks of silver among the light brown strands.
Shane takes his mother’s hands. “Why are you here this time of night?”
“Your sister works the swing shift at the prison.” Her words tumble over each other. “She went back to nursing school after the boys were old enough. You have another nephew now.” She looks at me, showing in an instant where Shane got his pale blue eyes. “Who’s this?”
“My girlfriend Ciara. She drove me up.”
“Thank you for bringing my boy home.” She wipes a tear from under her glasses and gives me a smile. “Oh!” Her smile widens, revealing laugh lines and crow’s - feet in an otherwise smooth face. “Come back to the house, both of you. I’ll make some nice—”
“Mom, we can’t stay.”
For some reason, I share her obvious disappointment.
“But why not?” she asks him.
“Ciara has to work early in the morning.”
“You’re driving home in the middle of the night?” She turns to me. “With all the crazies on the road?”
“I’ll be driving,” he says. “I work nights now, at a radio station.”
Eileen harrumphs. “We know all about your radio station.” She hasn’t moved any closer. “We saw you on the Internet, with your monster gimmick and your fancy little MySpace page.”
He glances at me. “My what?”
His mother waves her hand at Eileen. “Come give your baby brother a hug. After all these years.”
His sister crosses her arms. “Yeah, twelve years. Not a word, not a phone call, even when Dad got sick.”
“I couldn’t. I can’t explain, but—why didn’t you tell me he died?” Shane’s voice lowers to a rumble. “I had to read the obit on the Vindicator’s Web site.”
“Because you never called,” she snarls. “Too busy playing vampire, and before that? Invisible man.” She picks up the wreath. “I got no brother.”
“Hush.” Mrs. McAllister stamps her foot. “He’s here now, and that’s all that counts.”
“Eileen’s right, Mom.” Shane takes his hand out of hers. “I shouldn’t have disappeared. It’s all my fault.”
“No.” She wipes a flood of new tears with her knit gloves. “We were so worried when we couldn’t find you. Especially after you’d tried—” She glances at me.
“Ciara knows about that,” Shane says. “And I’m better now.”
She makes her plea to me this time. “You sure you can’t stay the n
ight?”
“I’m really sorry.” I pull a tissue out of my pocket and check that it’s not the one I wiped Dexter’s chin with. No blood— just lint—so I hand it to her.
“Thank you.” Mrs. McAllister wipes her eyes, then wraps her hand around Shane’s wrist. “But you’ll come back soon? For Thanksgiving? Or Christmas?”
I turn away, not wanting to see her face when he breaks her heart.
“Sure, Mom,” I hear him say instead. “Let’s plan on it.”
5
It’s A Man’s Man’s Man’s World
“He said what?”
“You heard me.” I lower the volume on my cell phone to guard my eardrums against David’s shouting.
“He can’t visit them for holidays! How will he explain why he can’t go out in the sun?”
I turn onto the long gravel driveway leading to the station. “I think he plans to tell them he’s a vampire.”
“They’ll have him committed.”
“Unless he proves it. Shows his fangs, drips holy water on his skin, lifts a car above his head with one hand.” Okay, he can’t actually do that last one, not for another seventy years or so. “Are you going to tell the Control?”
“Of course not.”
I brake hard as a squirrel dashes across the driveway ahead of me. The dense woods keep the station and its transmission tower secluded—just the way the DJs like it. Not that it prevents admirers from leaving gifts on our doorstep—flowers, teddy bears dressed as vampires, bags of what often turns out to be real blood.
David continues. “Shane’s young enough that the damage of accidentally running into his relatives isn’t irreversible. But any further contact is a direct violation of Control rules. Civilians can’t learn the vampires’ secret.”
“Other than the thousands of civilians listening to WVMP.”
“Who think they’re just pretending. Besides, fans don’t pick up on their odd patterns. A vampire’s human family would notice them avoiding the sun and never aging.”
Bad to the Bone Page 6
