“Go already.”
“C’mon, Dexter.” Shane tugs the leash, and the dog follows him reluctantly to the back door, watching me over his shoulder, to the point where he bumps into the wall because he’s not watching where he’s going.
I sit at the farthest end of the L - shaped living room couch. Lanham paces in front of me. I try not to fidget like a kid waiting to see the principal.
“Have you heard from your father?” he asks.
“No.” I temper the disappointment in my voice. “Nothing since he left.” I don’t mention the letter he stuck in my door the day he skedaddled. It had no clues, just some crap about family curses and how sorry he was and blah - diddy - blah.
“If he contacts you, you must inform us immediately.” When I don’t answer, Lanham turns to me. “It could save his life. He has many enemies, including his own family.”
My father helped the feds with a racketeering case against several South Carolina Travellers—or “Irish Gypsies” as they hate to be called. The deal got him out of prison several years early and into the Control’s undercover operation, a more exciting alternative to the Witness Protection Program.
“Still,” I point out, “the Travellers aren’t exactly the Mafia or the yakuza. Con artists take pride in our—I mean, their nonviolent approach.”
Lanham straightens a wall - mounted framed photograph of David’s family, and says nothing.
I force out the question, “What happens to my father when you find him?”
“He’ll go back to federal prison. He broke his early parole deal by turning on us, so he’ll finish out his original sentence, plus a few years. But he’ll be safe, I assure you.” Lanham sits on the couch two cushions over, his posture razor straight. “Internal Affairs is investigating one of your father’s Control bodyguards who staffed the safe house this summer. He may have let him escape.”
Colonel Lanham’s phone rings. He pulls out a notepad and pen as he answers it.
“Right.” He jots a few notes, angling away from me as I stand and lean to peer over his shoulder. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Good work.” He hangs up.
“Well?”
“The dog appears to have been stolen from the Control lab.”
“Stolen?” I plant my hands on my hips. “You can’t have him back.”
“They don’t want him. He was scheduled to be euthanized last month. Someone forged the records to show that it had been carried out. But it obviously wasn’t, since he’s alive and well.” His head quirks. “Not strictly alive.”
“Why did they want to put him to sleep?”
“He was a failure.” Lanham frowns. “Low aggression levels, though he didn’t show much evidence of that when I showed up.”
I rip my mind away from the thought of a dead - undead Dexter, and how they would make him that way. “Why would someone tie him to that cross?”
“Perhaps as a nighttime guard against human trespassers. Though considering the fact that you walked right up to him, he was a failure at that job, too.”
“Can I keep him?”
Lanham nods, then points to a small red - and - white cooler at the top of the stairs leading down to the front door. “There’s enough blood to last you six weeks. One vial every other day.”
“Thank you.” I wonder what I’ll have to do to get refills.
Lanham answers my unspoken question as he walks to the door. “You can thank me by finding your father.”
I mumble my agreement as I see Lanham out. I shut the door behind him and lean my forehead against it.
So now it’s my dog versus my dad. I ponder which one has shown more loyalty, and which would stand up for me in my hour of need.
It’s a short ponder. Dexter wins.
9
King of Pain
Saturday night Lori and I watch Shane perform an acoustic set at Legal Grounds, the coffeehouse near the courthouse. We sit at a far table on a higher level so we can spectate and drool but still carry on a conversation.
Even after four months of watching Shane perform, I find it hard to tear my gaze away from him. Right now he’s in the middle of Luka Bloom’s “Ciara,” the first song he ever played for me.
“It’s so romantic.” Lori carves out the graham cracker crust of her cheesecake. “It’s like he’s reminding those perky little sorority sisters in the front row that at the end of the night, he’s going home with you.”
“Actually, he’s going to work.” Another double shift of ninety - five percent male artists. (He sneaks in a female singer once in a while to see if FAN is paying attention. They are.) Regina supervises his version of her show, but she can’t be on the air without the pirates interrupting.
“That’s a new one,” Lori observes as Shane starts a rendition of “Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby” by Counting Crows. “Well, newish. After his time.”
“I told you, he can learn. He’s not fossilized like Monroe or Spencer.” I watch his fingers flash over the strings and fret-board, building complexity into the second verse’s instrumentation. “He never will, if I have anything to do with it.”
“You’d have a lot more to do with it if you lived with him.” In response to my glare, she asks, “How’s the apartment hunt?”
“Terrible.” I frown at my chocolate - dripped pecan pie— nothing against the pie, of course. “I can’t find anything in my price range that takes pets Dexter’s size. Credit checks look at my income and student loans and show I can’t afford an apartment.” I shift my cappuccino mug on the black glass table, missing my old landlord. “Dean never cared where my rent came from, as long as it was on time and in cash.”
“Why not apply as Elizabeth? She’s got money.”
“Too risky. Besides, I won’t be her forever. One day the station will make enough to survive without her. Until then, I’m two people.”
“One of which your boss is in love with.”
I look away, pretending to study the latest series of local artists’ prints lined up on the sunflower yellow walls. “David really needs to start dating normal girls.”
“Like you?”
“Like you.”
She blushes, as I knew she would. “He’s not my type.”
“He’s completely your type.” I count off on my fingers. “He’s smart. He’s sincere. He geeks out over history and magic, just like you.”
She crinkles her nose. “Not right now.”
I slump to rest my chin on my fist. “I wish you’d been there on Speedo Day. Those camera - phone pictures didn’t do him justice.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered.” She picks graham cracker crumbs off her sleeve as her face turns pinker. “It was already too late.”
My toe nudges her shin. “Are you hiding a Mystery Dude? Who could be more Lori Koski’s type than David Fetter?”
The front door bangs open, hitting the wall and jangling the cowbell attached to the handle. Regina strides in, followed by Travis, whose hand shoots up to catch the door before it bounces into his head.
There’s a reason why vampires don’t travel in packs in public. One vampire’s radiant, magnetic beauty is enough to attract attention. Following Regina, even a fledgling like Travis looks like a predator.
They slide inside the coffee shop, movements coordinated like wolves on the hunt, and though they proceed at normal speed, their graceful swaggers remind me of a slow - motion movie introduction.
They stand together inside the door and scan the joint, as if assessing the patrons’ vintage. They see us in the far corner, and Regina gives a cool chin - tilt of acknowledgment.
Travis, on the other hand, breaks into a grin of human warmth. Why is he so glad to see me?
Then I look at Lori. Her face has turned as red as her cheesecake’s strawberry sauce.
“Lori, no. Not Travis.”
She smoothes a lock of white - blond hair behind her ear. “But he’s sweet. And cute.”
“He’s gross. At his age, he has to drink twice a night. I bet he
has blood breath.”
“I wouldn’t know.” She glances back at Travis, who’s conferring with Regina. “We haven’t kissed yet. I tried last night, but he said he didn’t trust himself not to bite me.”
I rub the spot on my forehead that feels like it’s in a vise. “Don’t you see? His vamp eyes’ll get you all horny, until you let him drink you just so you can have sex.”
She glares at me, sullen - faced, like a teenager with her mom. “I know you two got off to a bad start, what with him trying to kill you—”
“Bit of a speed bump, yeah.”
“—but he’s been good since then, and so helpful with the investigations.”
“Lori, do you want him to bite you?”
She twists the little gold heart pendant on her necklace. “I don’t think so. I just like being with him.”
“He needs to know that now, not in the heat of the moment with his mouth against your neck or thigh.” I lower my voice. “Here he comes.”
She gasps. “Is my hair okay?”
Travis climbs the stairs to the second level and gives Lori what I have to admit is a smile of genuine affection.
“Hey there.” He squeezes her hand and looks at her like she’s the only person in the room. “Your hair sure is pretty tonight.”
Lori goes on a mad blushing - and - babbling spree. I wonder if his vampire ears heard her fretting about her hair.
Travis rotates our table’s empty chair and straddles it. “Got the goods for you.” He opens a vinyl portfolio and lays it on the table so Lori and I can read it. “Colleague of mine over in Frederick County says there’s scuttlebutt about a new cult out in the hills. Some local politicians and businessmen are rumored to be members. One guy he talked to said his uncle went to a recruiting meeting. It’s all secretive, like the Masons, but they mostly talked about how women were taking over the country.”
I scoff. “Which women? The ones who make seventy -seven cents for every dollar a man makes?”
He ignores me and flips to another page, a long list of numerals. “I dug into FAN’s electronics purchases and found equipment serial numbers. Maybe one of them matches the one at the cross.”
I look at the list. “How’d you find these serial numbers?”
“It’s all on their Schedule C’s.” He winks at Lori. “I got a friend at the IRS.”
It occurs to me that Travis is a good person to know. “I thought churches don’t pay taxes.”
“They still have to file, and a company like FAN is always covering their butts to keep from getting audited.” He pats his shirt pocket, probably for his cigarettes, then looks annoyed at their absence. I wonder if Lori has convinced him to quit smoking.
“David and I’ll check it out tomorrow.” I look past him at Regina, who’s glaring at Shane and pointing at her watch. “You guys are here to pick up Shane?”
“She is. We just came from—” He rubs his mouth self -consciously. “We visited a donor.”
At least he’s not thirsty. According to Shane, the younger vampires usually have their donor visits supervised for their first year. An untrained vampire can puncture an artery and make someone bleed out, or accidentally chomp on nerves and tendons, especially when the thirst is really bad. Why any human would risk such a medical misadventure is beyond me.
“So I’m free the rest of the night.” He looks at Lori. “You guys want to get a drink?”
“I’d love to,” I tell him, ignoring Lori’s grimace. No way I’m leaving them alone. He’ll be needing blood again before dawn.
Shane finishes the marathon tune and nods at the applause. He glances at the clock. It’s 10:55—enough time for one more song, but Regina clearly wants him to come now. Her posture is rigid, her lips tight with impatience.
He flexes his fingers, gives his guitar case a long look, then sends his gaze my way. I wonder if Regina catches his wink.
He adjusts the microphone closer to his mouth, readies his pick just above the strings, then whispers the first line.
“Mother, do you think they’ll drop the bomb?”
The crowd applauds, and Regina’s fingers curl into fists. Of course she recognizes the Pink Floyd song from The Wall and understands its blatant Oedipal themes.
She yanks a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of her black leather jacket, then puts one in her mouth. The coffeeshop manager approaches her and receives a withering glower, stopping him in his tracks. Finally Regina stalks outside, lighting the cigarette a millisecond after crossing the threshold.
Shane continues the song, his plaintive growl embracing and denying the hold this woman has on him. She stares through the front window, her pale face like a moon in the night sky, her cigarette like a star.
I get up and weave through the tables past the tiny corner stage, right up to the window.
With my middle finger extended so that only Regina can see, I tug the lower curtain across the window, obscuring the face of my lover’s maker, and the eyes that freeze my blood.
O’Leary’s pub is packed, as it has been since the temporary demise of the Smoking Pig. Sherwood has other bars—sports joints attached to strip mall restaurants, or honky - tonks out in the hills—but for the under - thirty crowd, O’Leary’s is the only Pig alternative.
An excellent alternative, it turns out. While Lori and Travis flirt with each other, I mitigate my dismay by watching a duo of Irish musicians belt out ballads and reels. I try to enjoy the music for itself, and not let it remind me of my dad or his vast extended con artist family.
Here, in a place where hardly anyone knows my name, it would be easy to succumb to my genetic urge to relieve some poor sucker of an extra ten or twenty dollars. Bar bets like match tossing and “The Swallow” will forever hold a special place in my heart.
I notice my pint of Smithwick’s is empty and turn to the bartender to ask for a soda to replace it.
A newspaper slaps down in front of me onto the polished wood of the bar.
CHURCH SUCKS LISTENERS FROM VAMPIRE RADIO
I turn to see Jeremy, who looks pale even in the low light.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday edition.” His smile is sly.
How’d you know to find me here?”
“I called the station. Shane told me where you were. He thought you’d want to see the article right away.” He sets his messenger bag on the stool next to mine and looks for the bartender. I guess he’s staying.
I peruse the Baltimore Sun article, the first major piece on the piracy controversy. No one from FAN can be reached for comment. Same goes for the FCC, except to say that the case is under review. As usual, the sensationalistic vampire schtick steals the stage from issues of media freedom. In its attempt to frame the issue as good (church) versus evil (vampires), the article neglects to mention the fact that we’re victims of a crime.
I fold up the paper and take the pint Jeremy offers. After that, I could use another drink.
“Could’ve been worse.” He sits on the stool and hooks his thick black sneakers around the lower rungs. “They could’ve revealed the truth about vampires.”
I search for a bar napkin to avoid looking at him. “The truth?”
“You can stop pretending.” He leans closer, elbows on the bar. “I fed Jim.”
My jaw drops, and it feels like the bartender’s sinkful of ice just washed across my back. “You’re lying,” I hiss at Jeremy. Please let him be lying.
“I’ve got the marks to prove it.” He shoves up the long sleeve of his Dashboard Confessional T - shirt to reveal a bandage on his right arm, stark white against the surrounding blue of his tattoos. The sight turns my mouth dry as sandpaper.
“Jim brought everything we needed,” Jeremy continues, “gauze, iodine, razors.”
My mind clears at the sound of the last word. I take another sip to hide my relief. Jim didn’t bite him—he “just” cut him and drank his blood, something any human could do. Jeremy doesn’t know the truth behind the lie behind the truth. He just thin
ks they’re regular humans involved in these kinky “vampire” practices.
Just to be sure: “Did he cut you, or did you cut yourself?”
“I did the first one, but then I almost passed out, so he did the second one.” Jeremy seems happy to spill the details. “That way I could just lie back and soak in the experience.”
“Why would you do that to yourself? So you can tell the world?”
“It’s not about journalism.” He rotates his glass. “It’s about finding something real. There’s nothing more basic to life than blood. Losing it, giving it—that’s a sacred act.”
“So are you going to write about it or not?”
He thumbs the gold ring on his left eyebrow, contemplating my question. “If I do, only obliquely. I don’t want to get Jim arrested.”
“Good.”
“Because I want to do it again.”
I almost smack my forehead in disbelief, then change the gesture to a scratch at the last second. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Of course it hurts. That’s the best part.”
“You get off on it?”
He frowns at me. “Not everything is about sex. Pain is real. It’s life. It connects us to each other, to the whole universe.” He sips his mixed drink, which I don’t recognize. “Did you ever watch a bug get caught in a spider’s web?”
“No.”
“The spider paralyzes its prey so it can’t move while it wraps it up. But when it comes back later to feed, the prey is still alive. It feels every bite.”
“I don’t think insects’ nervous systems are—”
“Pain happens everywhere, all the time.” He points to the window. “Somewhere in this town, a guy is beating his wife. A little kid is in the last stages of brain cancer. A cat is eating a mouse who has a litter of babies waiting for her to come back to the nest, babies that’ll starve by morning.”
I stare at him, then grab my pint of ale and take a long gulp.
“You don’t think about those things, do you, Ciara?”
I set down my glass. “Not specifically.”
His gaze drifts over my neck. “So, then, you and Shane don’t—”
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