Bad to the Bone

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  Some have hearts on them.

  “Did you make all these?” I ask him, knowing the answer.

  “Most of them were made by friends or girlfriends. The ones I made are probably stuffed in boxes in those people’s houses.” Shane hesitates in the middle of sorting my CDs. “The ones that weren’t burned.” He glances at me. “You can look through them if you want.”

  I pull out one with choppy handwriting. “ ‘Music to Get Legally Drunk to—March 1, 1989.’ Your twenty - first birthday tape?”

  He smiles and crawls over to join me. “My best friend Steve made that for me.” He cringes as he examines it. “Def Leppard. Poison. Warrant. A walk - in closet’s worth of musical skeletons.”

  I decide not to pick up the ones with feminine handwriting—at least, not while Shane’s here. Then I spy half a dozen tapes with Shane’s distinctive scrawl. I pull one out.

  “Who’s Meagan?”

  “Senior year of high school.” He takes it from me and smiles at the case. “She gave it back and told me to add some Janet Jackson. Meagan had crappy taste in music, but she could really—” He glances at me. “Um, dance. She was a good dancer.” He averts his eyes and reaches past me into the box. “Now, this is a great tape. Anne Marie, freshman year college.” He shakes the case, rattling the tape inside. “She was bad news—I should’ve listened to my mother about her. But she introduced me to punk and indie music, saved me from my heavy - metal hair - band wasteland.”

  “She cool - inated you.”

  His eyes crinkle when he smiles. “By some measures, yeah.” He slips the tape back into the box in its open slot. “Does it bother you that I keep these?”

  I hug my knees to my chest. “I try to erase my past as much as possible, so I don’t understand the impulse to preserve it.”

  “These mix tapes aren’t about the women, they’re about the person I used to be. Like a musical autobiography.” He runs his finger over the smooth case of one of the newer cassettes. “I haven’t made once since I died.”

  “Make one for me.”

  His eyebrows pop up. “Really?”

  I point to Elizabeth’s stereo. “I have a tape player now.”

  “You wouldn’t rather have another MP3 playlist?”

  “I want a tape.” I put my chin on my knees. “I want to be the next chapter in your autobiography.” I close my eyes. “And that sounded so much less cheesy in my head.”

  “Okay.” He takes my hand and kisses it. “You’ll love it.”

  I try to return his smile. He seems so serene, so at home already. How can he not be terrified? If I tell him this scares the shit out of me, will he think I don’t love him enough?

  Dexter slides off the couch, then waddles over and pushes his enormous head between us. Shane scratches behind the dog’s ear, producing a long, hearty groan of pleasure.

  Despite their strength and ferocity, despite the fact that they could rip the throat from nearly any living creature, and despite their eternal youth, these two boys need me.

  That’s the scariest part of all.

  I wait until I pull into the parking spot in front of my apartment building to dial Jeremy’s number. The whole drive home after my Wednesday night class had too much crazy traffic to safely spend on the phone. Life in a major suburb does not please me.

  Miraculously, he answers, with a heavy sigh. “What?”

  “Jeremy, I’ve been calling you for almost a week. What’s your deal?”

  “My deal is that you interfered with a journalistic investigation.”

  “When?”

  “T - Day.”

  I groan as I get out of the car and slam the door. “Trust me, you do not want that much weirdness.”

  “Weird? You sound like such a hater. Just because we’re a little different from your clean - cut mainstream Barbie doll—”

  “Hey!” That’s the second time this month someone with facial piercings has called me a Barbie doll. “Can we forget T - Day for a minute and look to the future?”

  “What about it?”

  “Are you coming to the Hell - iday Party?”

  “Of course. Just tell me which parts you plan to shield me from, so I can temper my disappointment in advance.”

  “It’s a public event.” I punch in the code to open the front door, which buzzes and clicks. “No shielding required.”

  “Ooh, I get to be part of the public. How special.”

  “Special enough to get an exclusive secret.”

  Paper rustles in the background. “Gimme it,” he says, his hostility evaporated.

  I unlock my apartment door. “David has found a way to prevent FAN’s interference.”

  “How?”

  “It’s technical.” I can’t tell Jeremy about David pulling the plug on the translator, because that would tip him off to the cross and the Fortress and other real - real vampire issues. “But it’ll be ready in time for the party. Regina’s making her comeback, so we’ll defeat the pirates in the most public fashion possible.”

  Dexter hops and dances when I enter the apartment, his forepaws bouncing against the floor. He comes over for a chin scratch. He’s so tall, I don’t even have to bend over.

  “I gotta go walk my dog,” I tell Jeremy. “See you Friday.”

  I hang up before he can ask any more questions.

  “It’s just you and me tonight, boy.”

  Dexter wags his tail and spins in a circle. He doesn’t know vampires are supposed to brood.

  Like the dog, I don’t mind the fact that Shane splits his time between our apartment and the station. His show ends at 6 a.m., which is too close to sunrise for him to risk the forty -five - minute or two - hours - with - traffic drive home. He’ll sleep in his old room on odd days and come home after sunset. So every other night I get the place to myself. Pretty sweet deal.

  I find a note from Shane stuck to the refrigerator with a WVMP Lifeblood of Rock ‘n’ Roll magnet. Written in fine -pointed black ink, the words fit neatly within the margins of the lined yellow legal pad sheet.

  Dear Ciara,

  You may have noticed I reloaded the dishwasher again. I know you didn’t have one in your old apartment, so I figured you could use some tips.

  A) On the bottom rack, it’s best to put the bowls on one side, plates on the other.

  i) and put the small plates together away from the big plates so you can grab them all at once when you put them away.

  B) On the top rack, you should put plastic things in between the glass/ceramic things so the glasses don’t knock against each other and break from the turbulence.

  C) Ideally you shouldn’t put the same kind of utensil in the same slot. Reasoning: if two spoons nest inside each other, then one might block the other from the spray, and it won’t get clean.

  i) And there should be an even number of utensils in each slot.

  a) Unless you have a serving spoon or a spatula or something. That’s worth two or three regular utensils.

  D) Per the manufacturer’s instructions (attached), plastic always goes on the top rack so it doesn’t melt.

  E) For God’s sake, don’t block the spout thing in the middle. Defeats the whole purpose, really.

  I turn over the sheet of paper to find another list of detailed instructions, followed by:

  Hope you had a good day at work and school.

  Love you,

  Shane

  I toss the note, along with the attached manufacturer’s instructions, into the paper recycling bin. As I lower the lid, I notice half a dozen sheets filled with iterations of the same note. Rough drafts.

  I give Dexter a grim look. It’s begun.

  18

  Bad to the Bone

  “Nothing says Yuletide spirit like a bunch of walking corpses.”

  Franklin shouts above the pulsing music as he examines the vampire - themed holiday decorations adorning the walls of the Baltimore dance club. I’m especially proud of the eight fanged reindeer pulling Santa’s fly
ing coffin.

  Standing next to him, Regina flips him the bird. “We’re more alive than you’ll ever be, dweebus.”

  “Until we’re not.” I point to the licking flames that frame our “Happy Hell - iday from WVMP” banner. “And then you know where we’re going.”

  I can’t hear Franklin’s acid - tongue response over the opening drum beats of Jim’s next song, the Beach Boys’ “Little St. Nick.”

  The sixties DJ shouts over the music. “It’s been a long, strange trip, and it ain’t over.” He holds up a replica of the original sign that was left at the Smoking Pig. “We’re all goin’ to hell!”

  The people on the packed dance floor cheer and wave their red WVMP Lifeblood of Rock ‘n’ Roll candy canes. We decided to go with the plush version for our giveaway promo item, instead of hard plastic, figuring people would be hitting each other with them by the end of the night. Plus, they double as cinnamon - scented car air fresheners.

  Franklin makes a disgusted face. “I’m going to recheck the sound again, make sure the broadcast is going out.”

  I watch him march off to his unnecessary task. Shane is already sitting on the side of the DJ booth with headphones, monitoring every moment of the FM signal. Noah and Spencer are back at the station, manning the audio board and receiving our remote broadcast.

  Regina examines me. “Your devil horns are crooked.” She reaches over and adjusts my diabolical headband, which matches the red trim on my elf’s costume.

  “Thanks.” I glance at her face. Her jaw drops.

  “Colin!”

  I turn to see the flame - haired punk rocker bounce through the crowd to greet us. I can’t help but smile to see him in one piece, considering how we left him in that alley.

  Regina hugs him so hard his eyes bulge. “You sneaky bugger, what an awesome surprise.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it, luv.” He smiles at me, but tension tightens the corners of his mouth, and he seems too distracted to bother with the usual vampire dazzle.

  Colin brings his mouth to Regina’s ear and speaks words that are lost to me under the music. Her face freezes.

  “No!” she says. “Fuck that. I’m not backing down. I have a job to do.” She sees me watching them, then takes his hand and turns away. They retreat to a dark corner, where the dancing green and red lights can’t find them. Being a lover of breathing, I don’t follow.

  I spy Jeremy sitting at a table on the next level, watching the partyers and taking notes. I zigzag through the crowd toward him, making sure no one steps on my shoes’ jingle - bell curly toes.

  “We put the ‘X’ in Xmas.” I lean over his shoulder and tap his notebook. “You can quote me on that.”

  He glares up at me and says nothing.

  I slip into the chair next to him. “So what do you think of our bonanza of blasphemy?”

  He sighs. “The hype is wearing thin.”

  “Not for our fans.” I sweep my hand over the throng. “They’re soaking in it.”

  Jeremy points his pen at me. “Do you ever say anything that isn’t completely empty?”

  “Not on the job, no.” The first tinkling sleigh bells of the Kinks’ “Father Christmas” segue into its driving guitar chords. My shoulders sway to the music, unbidden. “You should go dance.”

  “Not now.” He uncaps his pen and thumbs through the pages of his notebook.

  “Did I catch you in the middle of a deep thought?”

  He slaps the pad shut. “As a matter of fact, I was just ruminating on why it’s impossible to get the truth from you people. There’s always another layer, but each one turns out to be false.”

  “It’s showbiz. What do you want?”

  “I want something real.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “I know you don’t.” Jeremy shakes his head in apparent sympathy.

  My toe nudges the leg of his chair. “You and Shane could have an all - night conversation about authenticity.”

  “We have. I argued that even the nineties indie alternative whatever music he loves is more pretentious than he admits.” Jeremy spreads his hands on the table’s smoked glass surface. “Separating the artist from the audience is so twentieth century. The whole concept of the rock star is obnoxious and archaic.”

  “And what does he think of your emo music?”

  “Don’t call it that,” Jeremy snipes, as I knew he would. “He thinks it’s whiny, self - obsessive crap. He thinks he’s a sensitive guy, but he’s got his fortress like all the other macho men.”

  My spine jolts at his choice of word. “Fortress?”

  “Around his feelings.”

  I give a nervous laugh. “Yes, luckily for me, or I’d never get anything done.”

  Regina’s growl comes from the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am back. And I am one bitter bitch.”

  The crowd cheers, more aggressively than they did for Jim. I watch Shane’s face for dismay. At the first sign of a broadcast interruption, he’ll signal David, who’s standing just a few feet away with Franklin. But it shouldn’t happen, since David pulled the plug on the translator this afternoon.

  “This is a live remote broadcast,” Regina points out, “so you’re hearing exactly what our listeners hear, except they get a seven - second delay in case I accidentally say ‘fuck’ or ‘shit.’ “ She smirks and bleeps out the words on the delay. “But that means you’ll be the first to hear if those pirate bastards interrupt me again.” She goes silent for three or four seconds, which sounds like an eternity. “Nope. We’ve kicked their asses back to the Dark Ages, where they belong.”

  The crowd hoots and screams.

  “First up is one of my favorite holiday tunes, featuring two of the craziest, loveliest men in the world.” Regina angles her gaze to the light in a way that plays the shadows off her dark eyes and long lashes. “It’s Peter Murphy from Bauhaus with Tom Waits. Don’t ask me how those two hooked up, but they made this little monstrosity called ‘Christmas Sucks.’ “

  Staccato chords in minor keys creep out of the speakers like a rat skirting the shadows. The vibe is one hundred percent Halloween and sounds like an R - rated version of The Nightmare Before Christmas.

  I keep my eyes on Shane for any sign of FAN’s shenanigans. At the end of the first macabre verse, he sends David a thumbs - up. No pirates.

  “It worked,” Jeremy says. “So far, at least.”

  “So FAN only had one translator. They could always build another one, but for now, we’re free to be female.”

  “Nice.” He watches Jim prowl the edge of the dance floor, mingling with his fans. The vampire doesn’t even look this way.

  “You’re not his only one, you know.” I didn’t mean that as cruelly as it came out.

  Jeremy shrugs. “And he’s not mine.” He looks back at the stage, where Regina sways and vogues like a diva.

  Her, too? It’s a wonder this kid has any blood left.

  Suddenly an ear - shattering bell rings, dwarfing the music in its continuous drone.

  “Fire alarm!” Jeremy shouts.

  For a moment, no one moves. The partygoers glance around uneasily, putting on a façade of annoyance but no doubt thinking of other club fires where dozens were burned or trampled to death.

  I look at Shane, a great gob of fear sticking in my throat. He and the other vampires will die if they burn. They’ll disappear forever.

  Then Regina yells into the microphone, “Holy shit, everybody get out!”

  Panicked shouts erupt, and feet start to pound around us. The surge of bodies traps me and Jeremy against our table. If I join it, I’ll be flattened.

  Shane rips off his headset and leaps onto the stage. He snatches the microphone from Regina and cuts off the music.

  “Listen,” comes his calm, even voice. “Do not panic. Everyone stop for one second. Hear me? Stop!”

  At the sound of his order, the crowd freezes.

  “Look around,” he continues. “Locate the neare
st red exit sign. Got it? Now please walk—do not run, okay? Walk toward the exit. Help those who are having trouble. Leave your purses and coats. Better to be too cold on the street than too hot in here. Now go.”

  The mob takes a collective breath, then splits off to move toward the exits on either side of the club, as well as the front door. The club manager and staff take over the evacuation effort.

  Shane strides to the railing and holds out his arms to me. I reach out and let him lift me up, over, and down onto the dance floor level. Then he helps Jeremy clamber over the railing.

  Monroe approaches the three of us, corralling David on the way, and ushers us toward the door on the right. We make our way toward the rear exit, which leads to the parking lot behind the building. I can hear two different sirens, their volume swelling as they approach.

  The crowd carries us along to the street by the front of the club, which I expect to see engulfed in flames, just like the Smoking Pig on Halloween.

  The wide squat building looks intact. Not a wisp of smoke curls up from its wood - and - concrete façade. A false alarm? Or maybe a small kitchen fire already extinguished.

  David rubs his arms against the cold. “I hope the sprinkler system doesn’t ruin our equipment.”

  I look up at Shane, who’s scanning the crowd, his face on maximum alert—eyes flicking, nostrils flaring. He reminds me of Dexter, minus the perky ears.

  “Something’s not right,” he says. “I smell fire, but not from the—”

  A loud whistle pierces the air. I cover my ears, but not in time to block the rat - a - tat snaps of small explosions.

  Something heavy slams my body, flattening me to the ground. I can’t move. A wall of screams forms around me.

  Two more whistles follow in quick succession, then more shots rattle the air. Oh my God, we’re being attacked by vampire - hating terrorists. I kick with all my strength, but only manage to ring the bells on my toes.