by Mary Hughes
His head swiveled instantly toward me. “There is?” I had his full attention, and even though it wasn’t that kind of attention, it made me shiver and lick my lips.
Down, girl. I had some exposition to do. “Sure. Why is the Coterie trying to take over Meiers Corners?”
“Because of the Blood Center.”
“And Ruthven wants to take over the Coterie.”
“Yes, but—oh. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.” Julian went on to swear in another six languages. I was impressed.
Ruthie’s interest made sense if you knew Meiers Corners had a blood distribution center. It made even more sense when you factored in the big shipment of blood going out tomorrow.
Because that meant hundreds of gallons were sitting there tonight. “Wouldn’t Ruthass be in a better position to challenge Nosferatu if he controlled three thousand pints of blood?”
Julian’s answer was to swear even more. Which, I guess, was answer enough.
While he was reciting the Oxford Dictionary of Cuss, I phoned Elena. She put me on speaker phone and I relayed my theory to her and Bo. For a moment I heard stereo swearing, Julian in one ear and Bo in the other. Only Bo’s swearing sounded more like føkka bjeller drittsekk.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Elena said to me. “It all adds up.”
“Except one thing. With the Blood Center locked up tight, how does Ruthven expect to get in?”
“He can mist in,” came the stereo growls.
“Yeah, but the place is crawling with tourists. Not to mention the rent-a-fangs we’ll have after sunset. How’s he going to get the blood out?” There was a stunned silence on both ends.
That’s when Ruthven’s gang broke huddle.
Chapter Twenty-four
Ruthie’s pseudo-musicians rumbled down on us like the Bears. A dozen fullbacks couldn’t have been scarier.
Julian stood next to me, jaw working as if his fangs were barely in check. But nothing showed. There were still a dozen humans around, after all.
The Ruthven gang was fully armored and clawed, but their backs were to the warehouse. The only one to see them was me.
And, I realized after a squeak and a thud, Lob.
I’d have to worry about that later. The lead vampire, Billy the Kid, the Billy’s dad if Julian was to be believed, was a rough-looking male. He was only a couple inches shy of Julian’s skyscraper height, and a whole hell of a lot bulkier. The Kid flowed in until he was almost nose-to-nose with Julian.
Julian didn’t back off a millimeter. In fact, he pumped up and leaned forward a bit. “What do you want, yearling?”
The vampire’s eyes fired red. “I’m almos’ two hunnerd,” Billy TK hissed.
Hunnerd meaning hundred, I translated. Two hundred years old was decent, but only Queen Victoria instead of Queen Elizabeth I.
“Yearling,” Julian said clearly. “Look me up when you’re a thousand.”
Oh goody. My belt is longer than yours. Boys.
But the Kid’s red eyes faded, as did some of the armor. “We want somethin’.” He glanced back at his gang, the wall of muscled plate behind him. That seemed to pump back some of his courage. “Not from you, oh semi-Ancient One,” he sneered. “From her.” He thrust a gnarled thumb-claw in my direction.
Julian jumped in front of me and pumped even bigger, his back radiating his fury. “You’ll have to go through me.”
“This ain’t your business, Emerson,” I heard the Kid say beyond Julian’s bulk.
“The hell it isn’t! You’ve got exactly five seconds to get the fuck out of here—”
“We got a contract!” There was a crinkly sound, the Kid thrusting paper into Julian’s face. “You can’t threaten us, Emerson, and you can’t send us nowhere!”
“What…do…you…want?” Julian growled, so low and dangerous even I felt it.
“We want to be first,” the Kid said. “To play. We want to open.”
I jackknifed around Julian at that. “No. No way. You guys are awful. You’ll freak out half the audience. And the other half will hurl beer at you.”
Julian hissed, shoved me back behind him, and glared—at me. “What?” I said, frowning. “Beer would short out the equipment. We don’t have insurance.” Woofers ’R Us did, but BTK didn’t need to know that.
“You’d better let us play first, blood-bitch. Because if we don’t play, we chomp.”
Julian slid one hand slowly into his jacket. Anybody who’d ever seen a gangster movie would have recognized that threatening gesture. “Not on my watch, Billy.”
The Kid had the audacity to laugh. “How you going to stop us, Emerson? You don’t want to frighten the humans so you can’t fang up…ack.”
The ack was because Julian did his faster-than-sound thing, the one he did the first night I met him. The whistling flash of silver that sliced, diced, julienned, and spurted blood like a squirt gun. I peeped around his back.
The Kid’s throat was sliced open. His head lolled awkwardly on his shoulder, held on by a few gristly bits. Blood spurted haphazardly over his tee, spattered the floor.
With trembling hands, the Kid picked up his head and plopped it back onto his neck. He shoved a little, like he was popping a doll head on. The muscle and skin reattached. With a crick of his neck, the Kid was as good as new.
He sneered at Julian. “Nice trick. But I’ll be prepared for it next time. You won’t…ack.”
Julian, without even moving very much, had done it again.
“Nice,” the Kid said when he’d reattached again. “But you can’t…ack.”
“Okay,” said the Kid when he’d pulled himself together a third time. “Maybe you can. But you can’t do it all…ack.”
This was followed by a blur and four more acks. When I blinked, the blur was gone and Julian was standing right where he had started.
And all the vampire guys were picking up their heads.
The guys assembling chairs and speakers stopped and stared. I peeked around Julian and smiled. “Magic act, folks. For closing night. The red stuff’s Kool-Aid.” I nudged Julian with my elbow. “Psst. Do your Obi-Wan thing again.”
“My what?”
“I am so taking you to see Star Wars. Do the mind control thing.”
“It’s called suggestion,” he muttered, but dutifully called out, “You only saw a magic act.” His voice was that weird hollowness that got inside your head and rang. Even I almost started believing it was all hocus-pocus.
By this time the vampires had gotten their heads back on. Julian faced them, discreetly tapping wicked, six-inch curved talons against his chest. Wow. What Dolly wouldn’t give to have his nail technician. “Gentlemen,” he said in a cold, contained voice. “Please do not make me go through this all night. Because the next time, your heads may get lost before they can be reattached.”
The Kid’s eyebrows tightened in a frown. “What do you mean, get lost?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Which might have been scary and might not. So I suggested, “We could take them to the bowling alley. They’d be a little scuffed up after a few frames, but…”
“Thank you, Nixie.” Julian clapped his hand over my mouth. “But I’m sure Billy here can imagine for himself what I might do.”
“Just trying to help,” I mumbled into his palm.
“We’ll go,” the Kid said. “But we’ll be back.”
“Thanks for the warning, Terminator.” My clever remark was lost in Julian’s hand.
When Julian finally released me, the gang was stalking out the door. He stared after them, his mind obviously working hard. “Why the hell did they want to play first?”
“To drive away the customers. Which is better than killing them.” I grabbed his hand and yanked him toward the door. “Which is what the Ladies Auxiliary’s cheese balls will do unless we can get there fast!”
Julian didn’t move. “But how does it fit with Ruthven and the Blood Center—”
“Come on, Julian! Save the w
orld now. Brood later.”
He didn’t like it, but he came.
When we got there, it was worse than I could have even imagined.
Three people were in charge of every event—a chair, a council producer, and a vampire protector. The chair for the cheese ball tasting was Twyla Tafel, conveniently out of town helping her sister with the new baby. Brunhilde Butt was the council member, but she was also doing the opening reception and couldn’t be in two places at once, no matter how fast she shimmied. The vampire guard was one of the rent-a-fangs, who wouldn’t arrive until dark.
Not a single in-charge person was there.
Zillions of LLAMAs were, however—including Mrs. Ruffles, Dirk the Duck’s mom (picture a girl duck with big high heels, pearls, and an overbite). Lutheran Ladies were everywhere, feverishly laying out large, smelly balls. I couldn’t call them cheese balls, not with what the Ladies did to them. Macbeth’s witches couldn’t have come up with nastier stuff.
Fortunately no tourists were there yet. I still might beat off disaster.
“Fire!” I yelled.
Mrs. Blau turned immediately. “Why, hello, Nixie. What a lovely party.” Mrs. Braun, Mrs. Gruen, and Ms. Gelb added their smiling concurrence.
Mrs. Ruffles waved. Friendly, except she had a cheese ball in her hand. The ball catapulted like a major-league pitch. I ducked just in time to avoid pus-ball face. The ball hit the door with a splat, sliding slowly down like snot. There’s an image you don’t want of something that’s supposed to be food.
“Tornado!” I shouted. “Evacuate!”
“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Blau said. “Could you get a few more napkins?”
They were ignoring me. Could things get worse?
Sure. While I was trying to think of something else to yell, a bus from the retirement community pulled up. Thirty or forty little old ladies and a dozen little old men shuffled off, headed straight toward us.
I swore, but only in my head. There were church ladies here, after all.
Just before the door opened to the tourists, I saw the snot-ball lying on the floor. With a swift kick, I sent it under a table. But some stuck to my shoe. Eww. I shook my leg frantically. Slime-ball sprayed all over the floor. Shit. The tourists would think someone had barfed. Oh well. At least things couldn’t get worse.
Then I saw my mother swooping down on Julian and me.
Apparently things could always get worse.
“Mr. Emerson! Julian! It’s so wonderful to see you again! Such a delight!” It was all Julian this and Julian that. Mom was so effusive I thought Julian might go into a diabetic coma. If vampires went into those sorts of things.
“Good evening, Mrs. Schmeling,” Julian replied, kissing both her cheeks. Whoa. I guess two could play at the gigasugar thing. Or maybe his Old World courtesy ramped up when greeting his future mother-in-law…oh, I did not just think that.
My mother got a load of what Julian was wearing and jerked visibly. I palmed my aching forehead, knowing what she was seeing. Black leather jacket, naked chest, black leather pants, naked chest, black leather boots…and of course, naked chest.
But all she said was, “What a nice earring, Julian. Is that new?”
Ye gods. I was doomed.
Sure, not a word about the naked chest, so I should have relaxed, right? But my mother was cagey. Like “have you stopped beating your wife”, her question posed all kinds of danger.
Because what could Julian say that would not get us both burned at the maternal stake?
He could say, “Yes, Nixie bought the earring for me.” Then my mother would think, ahah! A diamond, so an engagement present. And if not an engagement diamond, what the hell was I doing spending that kind of money on a man? Moreover, what crime had I committed to get that kind of money?
Julian could say, “No, the earring’s not new,” but then my mother would think he was a closet punk. Since in my mother’s mind punks committed all sorts of atrocities, maybe Julian had been—gasp—lying about other things. Like being a lawyer. Strangely, I thought the small omitted fact of his being a vampire wouldn’t bother her half as much as finding out he’d lied about being a lawyer. There’s a reason Gainfully Employed is number one on the Mother Test.
Julian could also answer, “Yes, I bought the earring for myself.” That was just admitting he was a girly-man. Because what other kind of guy buys jewelry for himself, especially a one-carat diamond earring? Yes, I know that’s baka, but that’s how my mother thinks.
I signaled frantically, doing the round Obi-Wan gesture. When Julian ignored that, I began to flail in my best Team America manner. Still nothing. The man was a total pop culture moron.
I had forgotten that Julian, while he hadn’t seen any movies in this century, had quite a lot of experience with human nature. He smiled blindingly, said, “Why, thank you, Mrs. Schmeling. I’m glad you like it,” and left it at that.
Hit with Julian’s best twenty-four carat smile, my mother blinked several times. “Oh, yes. Nice weather we’re having.” She seemed to have forgotten that she ever asked a question. It probably didn’t hurt that his nipples winked at her.
Imminent disaster averted, I took the opportunity to scope out the cheese ball damage.
The Ladies were working clockwise from the door, putting out atomic bombs…er, cheese balls. They looked like lopsided toy basketballs—the cheese balls, that is, not the Ladies. As they put out their ticking bombs, they pushed the gourmet (i.e. edible) balls back out of reach.
Dirk’s mom was working twice as fast as everyone else. So I started with her. “Mrs. Ruffles?”
“Hello, Dietlinde, how are you? I heard you are running the festival. Do you like that? Who is that lovely young man you’re with? Does he play music? My Dirk plays music, you know. He plays a big brass flute. Do you still play the black flute?” She was laying out balls as fast as she was talking.
With all the LLAMAs watching, I couldn’t simply make the bad balls disappear. I could only do like Sleeping Beauty’s third good fairy godmother and cast a mitigating spell. As quietly as possible, I pulled the good, tasty, normal cheese balls back in front. “I’m fine,” I said, answering the only question I remembered.
“That’s good,” Mrs. Ruffles said. “Oh, hello.”
The last wasn’t to me. I looked up to see two rich-looking old ladies approaching. As they came they dipped into aged cheddar and wine with almonds, brie with chives and cashews, and Wensleydale with walnuts. They also dropped twenties in the donation buckets like monsoon season.
Yay! Donors. And generous donors. We might win against Ruth-ass-ven yet.
Mrs. Ruffles chose that moment to set a pusball down right in front of them.
I stared for a moment in stunned horror. At best, the little old moneybags would nibble a bit of pus and run out screaming, plucking up their twenties on the way.
At worst, they would keel over dead from instant food poisoning.
I didn’t have time to think. I simply acted. I snatched up a good cheese ball and threw it, aiming between the old ladies and death.
My aim wasn’t so good. The ball smacked Mrs. Ruffles in the back of the head. She lost her balance, went flailing. She tried to catch herself on the table, put her hand splat into her cheese ball.
Okay, not what I intended. But it worked. Got rid of the pusball and took Mrs. Ruffles out of the balling race. And I’d only lost one good ball.
Before I could congratulate myself too much, Mrs. Ruffles tried to get rid of the glop—by shaking her hand like a wet dog. Gobs of pusball went everywhere, over walls, over the tables, over me. Pusball spatter hit the little old ladies in the face like bugs on a windshield.
The two little old moneybags stood frozen like corpses in rigor. Cheese pus slithered down their cheeks and jowls, dripped off them onto the floor. One took off her glasses and, without seeming to notice what she was doing, polished them on a pus-covered sleeve.
Mrs. Ruffles held her hands to her mouth to stifle a gasp. “I
’m so sorry! I’ll get you cleaned up in a jiffy!”
“No!” I cried. Ruffles genes and LLAMA pusballs—duck.
Mrs. Ruffles swept up the first clean cloth she saw to wipe pus spit off the old ladies.
It happened to be the tablecloth. Cheese balls went flying. Good and bad. Plop, plop, plop went cheddar and Wensleydale. Splooshhh went pus. The brie stuck to the ceiling.
Shit. Maybe I could rescue the good cheese. Five-second rule, right? Just scoop up the slightly flattened gourmet balls and put them back on the table. We’d call them baroque cheese balls. Baroque, get it? Like “broke”, only baroque also means squashed pearl and these balls certainly qualified…okay, not funny. But I was under pressure.
Anyway, like a birthday wish spoken out loud, the five-second rule doesn’t apply in public. With witnesses watching, I couldn’t pick up the good cheese balls. We were now out three more gourmet cheese balls (with nuts) and only one more pusball. The odds were getting worse.
Mrs. Ruffles panicked, running around like Daisy Chicken with her head cut off. Her foot hit the ball of pus and she went skidding. Slam! she went, into another table, sending more cheese balls flying.
Then I panicked, because most of these were the good balls. Without those cheese balls, we were ruined. I flung myself onto the ground. Maybe if they landed on me at least it wouldn’t be the floor. Does the five second rule apply to skin?
I had forgotten Julian’s supernatural reflexes. Even before I landed I felt a breeze, heard tiny sonic booms. Maybe not real sonic booms, but when I got to my elbows and opened my eyes, there sat the cheese balls on the last standing table, nice as you please.
There was a collective silence as we took in the damage. Mrs. Ruffles and I were on the floor, both of us ass-deep in pus and mayonnaise. Two tables were overturned. The floor was littered with bits of cheese, pus, and nuts. Little bits of pusball clung to one old lady. The other one had died and was now a ghost. No, that was only the tablecloth covering her.
Julian reached up and snagged the brie off the ceiling. My mother went for the overturned money buckets. Mrs. Ruffles tried to get up to help her. I tackled Ruffles harder than a Cowboy fullback. I’d found out things could get worse. If I let Mrs. Ruffles up, who knew what more damage she could do? Like mother, like son. Except, thinking of my mother, what did that make me?
