Fangtabulous

by Lucienne Diver

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Marcy said.

  “Bobby, look at me,” I said.

  He did, but not with recognition. I stood up on my tiptoes to grab him around the neck and draw him down to my level so that I could rest his forehead on mine, look him in the eyes. “Bobby, it’s Gina. Your girlfriend Gina. I—” I’d said it before in mind-speak, but … but what? If it could save him, keep him whole, what was pride compared to that? “I love you. Stay with me. You’re not going anywhere, dammit. Don’t you dare cross me on this.”

  “Gina,” someone said. I was so focused on Bobby that I almost missed it. “Gina,” Marcy said, more insistently.

  I looked up and spotted Ty making his way toward us. Of course. The man missed nothing.

  “What do we do?” I asked.

  I looked to each one for an answer. Bobby, still fighting his demon, didn’t look back.

  The last thing I wanted was for Ty to catch on and call an exorcist.

  “We need allies,” Marcy said quietly.

  I made a decision. “You all hang back. Watch Bobby. I’ll see what he wants.”

  I headed Ty off before he could get to the rest of the group. The others faded back into the crowd.

  “There’s a BOLO out for you,” Ty said as he approached.

  It took me a second to realize he wasn’t talking about the stringy western tie, but something official, a Be On The Look-out.

  I shrugged. “Whatever they want me for, I’m innocent. Something weird is going on, so I’m dodging the police just now, but trust me, there’s another side to the story.”

  Ty smiled, but his eyes were full of secrets. “You mean the story about how those puncture wounds appeared on the officer’s neck after a commotion at the medical center last night?”

  Well, crap.

  He waited, like he was looking forward to hearing whatever I came up with that he was fully prepared not to believe. Knowing that, I didn’t even try.

  Instead, I lifted my chin in defiance. “You didn’t rat me out. You were standing right over by the cops, right up to the tape line. You could have put them onto the fact that I was here. You didn’t. What is it you want?”

  “An exclusive.”

  “Come again?”

  “Look, I figured you out. I can’t be the only one. It’s only a matter of time before some modern-day Van Helsing comes hunting you. But think about it—vampires are hot right now. There’s never been a better time to come out of the closet.”

  We’d tried that once. Back in Ohio, where the gang and I had first been vamped, we’d tried to expose the whole thing to the press. The Feds had come in and swept it all under the rug. They were already here in Salem, hot on our trail. Why should I believe that this time would be any different? I asked Ty the same question.

  “Because we believe, and we won’t cave.”

  Sure, until the Feds initiated some kind of search and seizure on the Ghouligan’s equipment or audit on their finances, or pulled out any of the other big guns in their arsenal.

  “What would be in it for us?”

  I didn’t know what made me ask that. I’d been standing out here for too long already. The cops could notice me at any moment.

  “We could help you.”

  “How?”

  “You tell me.”

  I thought about it for a second. “A set of wheels and enough money to disappear.”

  “After we get what we want.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll have to talk to my producers. How do I get in touch?”

  “I’ll find you.” Allies. I tried to focus on that. If Ty really could do what he said … if he could shine a light on supernats and do an exposé on the Federal facilities that exploited them … would things actually get any better, or just go farther underground? Would vamps be the next superstars or would we be hunted like the witches of Salem? Or both?

  Ty nodded. “Okay, for now.”

  “Did you record the killer cop on your equipment? I mean … do the police know he was possessed?”

  “They don’t believe us.”

  “Stupid-heads.”

  That surprised a laugh out of him.

  “One more thing,” I said. “Maybe two.” I was still debating how much to say, but things were moving too quickly for caution. “Do you recognize this?”

  I pulled the amulet from my pocket and dangled it before his face. He grabbed for it, and I snatched it away, back into my pocket.

  “No. What is it?” he asked.

  “Maybe the cause of all the trouble. We’re going to find out, and stop it. If you learn anything or hear about a special Book of Shadows … ”

  “I’ll, what, call you? You said you’d find me.”

  Oh, right.

  “Leave a message with someone at the Gothic Magic Show. I’ll get it.”

  “If you need an expert to take a look at that”—he nodded to my pocket—“you let me know.”

  “Thanks, we’ve got our own expert.” I hoped.

  I walked away. After about a dozen paces, the others fell in beside me.

  “What did he want?” Brent asked.

  “He wants to tell our story.”

  “You trust him?”

  “To tell the story? Yes.” But was that what we wanted, or would it just send us from the frying pan into the fire?

  “Okay, so we’ll call that plan H,” Brent said.

  “Why H?” Marcy asked.

  “For Hell in a Handbasket.”

  Bobby was standing quietly … too quietly, one hand raised to gnaw again at his non-existent nails.

  “Come on, we’ve got to get him out of here.” I put an arm through one of his to pull him with me, but he dug his heels in and refused to budge. His eyes were brown, and his whole body radiated leashed tension. Holding his arm was like holding a live wire.

  “Where?” he asked. “Can’t go far. Can’t leave. There be sea monsters.”

  So much for sanity.

  Ulric grabbed his other arm, and together we managed to propel him along with us and get him into the front seat of the car.

  “Where are we going?” I whispered to Ulric, which was just silly, because Bobby’s vamp hearing would pick it up anyway. But human habits died hard.

  “I talked to Olivia. She’ll meet us at the brew pub after closing, and she’s calling in reinforcements.”

  “Huh?”

  “Her coven.”

  “Oh—cool.”

  We all rode in silence the rest of the way to the pub, except for the silly song Bobby sang to himself as he began to rock:

  “ … That wiggled and jiggled and tickled inside her

  She swallowed the spider to catch the fly

  But I don’t know why she swallowed the fly

  Perhaps she’ll die.”

  I shared a glance with Ulric in the rearview mirror, like parents might share about their five-year-old’s imaginary friend. It made me feel old. And scared.

  “What do we do with Bobby when we get to the pub?” Marcy hissed to me.

  “Well, we can’t leave him alone,” I hissed back.

  Which meant we’d be bringing him along. Babysitting had so never been my gig.

  Bobby suddenly started to get agitated. Like … really. He went from gentle rocking to flinging his body into the backrest and kicking the dash. He tore at his hair with nubby nails and beat at his head.

  “Stop. Stop, STOP!” he cried. “Stop thinking so loud. I CAN HEAR YOU, YOU KNOW!”

  We all stared at Bobby. Was he talking to himself? Renfield telling Bobby to just stop fighting? Or was Bobby somehow coming through, warning us that his alter-ego could hear our thoughts? Bobby had said he couldn’t access his powers any more. But what if his counterpart could? What if our spoken words weren’t the only things he could overhear? Spooky.

  “Shh-shh-shh!” I tried to soothe him. “No one’s saying a thing.” I turned to the others. “Blank your minds.”

  Bobby gav
e me a suspicious look, but he paused from spazzing out long enough to listen. A second later, he sank bonelessly into the seat, no longer fighting or humming. I’d have thought him asleep if he didn’t flinch with every bump in the road. My heart hurt for my boy.

  We had to finish this. Now. Tonight. Before the Feds found us or anyone else died.

  We had to coax Bobby out of the car, toward the closed and locked doors of the nearly deserted pub. He dragged his feet the whole way until something caught his attention and his head suddenly shot up. Like a predator, his eyes became laser-focused. Following his gaze, I barely caught sight of a creepy, crawly movement before he pounced, slapped a hand over a shadow with too many legs, and swept it into his mouth. I heard the crunch of exoskeleton and nearly threw up all over the evergreens flanking the entrance.

  “But I don’t know why he swallowed the fly,” Bobby sang, smacking his lips. “Perhaps he’ll die.”

  I was never kissing that mouth again.

  When Olivia answered our knock and let us in, her face was all concern. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Close enough,” I answered, unable even to look at Bobby. I knew it wasn’t actually him, but at the same time … “Let’s hurry.”

  I shooed her inside, and held the door open for the others before yanking it closed and locked behind us.

  Olivia led the way to a table at the back—or really, three tables pulled together, where her friends already sat. I don’t know what I’d expected—pointy hats, green faces, or just more blue hair like Olivia’s—but it wasn’t what I got. Around the table sat five perfectly normal-looking people … and Chip from the Morbid Gift Shop.

  Olivia introduced us all, first names only. The coven was like a study in contrasts. Beside Chip was a gorgeous African-American lady with thick braids every variant of color from blond to black, twisted into a complicated updo, and skin that would make cosmetic companies weep because it needed no enhancement. She was so thoroughly occupied with the knitting in her lap—a baby-blue blanket—that she barely looked up at her name, Pru. Next to her was a pierced princess: eyebrow, nose, lip, and five studs marching up her right ear, the first with a chain connecting it to the last, and just two studs in the other ear, each with a blood-red little gem. Her hair, lips, and brows were black, but her blond roots were showing.

  At the end of the table was a handsome man with sandy, close-cut hair wearing a heather-gray cable knit sweater like he’d just stepped off an Irish fishing boat. Then there was a businessy blond wearing her ponytail so tight that she looked surprised into an instant face-lift, and finally a hippy chick in a way-colorful dashiki and feathered earrings. If I’d been a pollster looking for a random sampling in a mall somewhere, I’d totally pull these people together, never suspecting they had anything in common. Certainly not witchcraft.

  Through it all, Bobby rocked and sang to himself and the others shot him worried looks until Chip asked, “What’s his deal?”

  “Actually,” I answered, “he’s part of the problem. The reason Olivia called you here is that we think we might have found the source of the sudden insanity plaguing the town. We thought that if we brought it here for you to examine, you might be able to help us stop it.”

  We had everyone’s attention. I took the pendant from my pocket, touching it with my bare hand for the first time. I felt the tingle of power it possessed, but nothing else happened as I let it drop to the end of its cord and dangle for all to see. “We think this is what’s been riling up the spirits, fueling them to the point where they can possess and even kill.”

  “So this guy is … possessed ?” the pierced princess asked, like she was fascinated rather than repelled.

  “Yes.”

  “And you brought him here?” Chip asked, just as Pru gasped, “Tituba’s necklace!”

  Chip froze mid-rise from his seat at the table, halfway to getting all up in my grill. “Say what?” he asked, turning on Pru.

  She didn’t take her eyes from the amulet as she spoke. “At the Historical Society we have this sketch of Tituba—the only one, as far as anyone knows—wearing that pendant. There’s no record of what happened to it after she was arrested. See, the officials used to confiscate all an accused’s belongings, but since she was a slave, everything she had was considered her master’s, so it wasn’t overly strange that it never made it into the record. Where did you find it?”

  I looked to the others and Brent gave me a shrug, spreading his hands in invitation, like it was my show.

  “We got it tonight, from a girl named Rebecca Simms.”

  The pierced princess gasped, and all the coven members exchanged a glance.

  “What?” Brent asked sharply.

  All gazes settled on Irish, who I assumed to be their leader. “She was one of us, once,” he said. “But we weren’t … edgy enough for her. She didn’t want balance. She wanted power.”

  “I’d say she found it,” I commented, glancing at the amulet.

  “But how did she get it?” Pru asked. “And where? Tituba escaped the gallows. That’s what’s fanned the continuing belief that she was the one true witch in the whole hunt. The histories say someone was allowed to buy Tituba’s way out and she left town, never to be heard from again. I’d have thought she’d take the necklace with her.”

  “Unless it was sold to raise her ransom,” Irish suggested.

  “Or passed on to her daughter,” I said.

  “Violet?” Pru looked contemplative. “It’s possible. That would explain how it stayed in the area. By all accounts, Violet was left behind, stuck with the Reverend Parris until his death.”

  “What happened at Violet’s death?” Ulric asked, leaning in.

  Pru shrugged. “I could try to find out, but unless they were getting sold or persecuted, no one thought slaves’ lives much worth recording back then.”

  “Ancient history,” Chip said, impatiently. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but we’re interested in the here and now.”

  “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” Pru quoted to him.

  “You sound like my eighth-grade history teacher.” Chip nodded to the necklace. “Shall we?”

  Everyone looked at the amulet. Then Olivia looked at us. “We’ll need you outside of the circle,” she said gently. “We’re not attuned to your energies, and they’ll interfere with our reading.”

  I had no idea at all what that meant, but I took Bobby by the arms. He flinched and started to lash out a hand, but then stopped to stroke and sniff at my hair instead. It was beyond weird to feel revulsion rather than attraction at his touch. I stifled the urge to pull back and led him to another table, along with Brent and Marcy. We watched from there. At the table we’d left, the coven reseated themselves around the amulet and began chanting, eyes closed.

  I’d never seen magic before—which sounded odd when I thought about the fact that I was facing eternal youth with a boyfriend (assuming I ever got him back) who could move things with his mind, and that I could go ghosty. But I meant the external, power-to-the-people kind of magic. The kind that, apparently, glowed … just like the amulet.

  True story—the amulet hovered there as we watched, about an inch or two off the table, and shone red. It was the kind of red an overactive imagination might assign the eyes of a demon staring into the house from the bushes outside, waiting to ambush you. It was a good thing I didn’t have an overactive imagination. Still, it gave me the creeps.

  Finally, I couldn’t take the silence or the eerie glow a second longer. “So, the enchantment … you can break it?

  The amulet dropped to the table with a clatter, but it took longer for its light to ebb.

  “The user has bound it by blood,” Irish said. “We could, perhaps, shield it, isolate its power, but to stop it … if you sever a force like that rather than put it to rest, there’s backlash. There’s no telling what it might be. It could kill those who are possessed, or lock in the s
pirits. It could drive them mad.”

  “So that would be a ‘no’?” Marcy asked wryly.

  “A ‘no,’” Irish agreed. “Perhaps if we had time to study it.”

  “What if you were able to study the spell book of the original owner?” Brent asked. “Would that tell you what you need to know?”

  The man’s eyes lit up like a jack-o’-lantern caught in a flamethrower. “Tituba’s Book of Shadows? You have it?”

  “We were hoping you could help us find it,” Brent responded.

  The light in his eyes dimmed. “How?” he asked.

  “Some kind of spell,” Brent answered. “Like a locator.”

  But already Irish was shaking his head. “That spell book is legendary—people have been looking for decades. It might work if we had a connection. But if I’ve read it right, this amulet has had at least two owners since Tituba: her daughter, and then Rebecca, to whom it’s blood-bound.”

  “Then any lore you might know,” Brent pushed. “Where Tituba lived, where she might have hidden the book.”

  Irish thought about that. “The only surviving house dating back to that time and associated with the trials is the Witch House. At least according to their promo. It was the home of Judge Jonathan Corwin, who used to interrogate witches there. They run tours now, but not at this time of night. Anyway, Tituba would hardly have hidden it there.”

  Renfield-Bobby cackled suddenly and slammed a foot down on the ground. He reached down to pick up whatever he’d stomped and popped it into his mouth. My stomach fought to reverse itself. I wondered when his would do the same. Back when we’d first been vamped, a few of us had been silly enough to try real food and drink—and almost got to see ourselves from the inside out.

  He saw me looking, and probably turning several shades of green, and grinned.

  “Crunchy!” he said, like it was an endorsement. There was a wire-thin leg sticking out from between his teeth. Blood flooded my mouth like bile.

  I had to choke it down again before I could rejoin the conversation. “So, what you’re saying is that we have to figure out what the town was like back then—what was standing and where she lived.”

  Daunting didn’t begin to cover it.