by D. R. Perry
“Anyway, I’ll give all this new information to LORA while I fill you guys in.” Blaine retold my story almost verbatim. I wondered whether he had a naturally perfect memory or if it was a dragon thing.
“This Della,” Albert said, “she was your paramour? What drew you to her?”
“Um, the way she smelled. It’s what I noticed first about her, but that’s supposed to be pretty typical for vampires.”
“I’m aware.” He toyed with a lock of his long platinum hair. “But just over an hour ago, the three of you attacked a woman. Why?”
“She smelled delicious.” Dave’s comment made me blink. He usually clammed up in front of people he didn’t know well, but he had come out and said the thing I hadn’t been able to.
“So, Della’s got an attractive-enough scent to hook a guy who’s played the field since 1999.” Blaine blew a smoke ring. “She loses something important to her at a hotel with her new boyfriend, who she’s convinced to bite her despite it being illegal. And then, a staff member working on the floor where she’s staying smells delicious.” Blaine grinned. “I think we’ve found our answer, folks. I’ll bet dollars to donuts Della lost some special perfume.”
“Yeah, the magical kind.” Nox ran a hand through her hair. “That stuff’s not exactly legal, but it’s pretty popular with a certain type of girl.”
“Wait a minute.” I shook my head. “That can’t be right. I never tried to bite Della even once.”
“Well, maybe she found a different magic perfume after she started dating a different guy.” Olivia shrugged. “I don’t know much about magic cosmetics, but if Lane never wanted to bite her and she wanted to be bitten, doesn’t it make sense for her to look for a boost?” The owl shifter glanced down, her face reddening. “It’s like wearing a push-up bra to get a guy’s attention. If it doesn’t work, some girls might try the kind with water, even though those have a risk of embarrassing wardrobe failure.”
“Been there. Done that.” Nox nodded. “Threw away the t-shirt. But it's magic perfume. Hmm, I wonder if coincidence has anything to do with it? Lane didn’t make a habit of biting people because he got turned after that was the way all the vamps did it. Jack's older, so he’s more likely to bite.”
“I’ve got nothing.” I shrugged. “But it sounds like you ladies know way more about this subject than us guys do.
“New data shows a pattern in vampire-related crimes.” LORA’s creepy voice actually made me step back. “Coincidence detected for subjects Lane Meyer, Peter Hartford, Matthew Gardner, and David Goldberg. Same witness detected at all scenes.”
“Give us the dates, LORA,” Blaine said.
A thud to my left and a gasp to my right meant Pete and Dave had both reacted. But I couldn’t, left more immobile by the revelation than Nixie’s stilling spell. I should have known the whole situation felt familiar, and I should have known LORA would spit out today’s date, along with the date of the night we’d all been turned. The other two dates she gave in January rang a bell, but I didn’t know right away how they related to us. None of us could move. I could barely think. Fortunately, we got by with a little help from our friends.
“Bianca? You awake in there?” Nox headed to one of the suite’s connecting doors, which was closed, and knocked on it.
We all waited in silence as the door unlocked and opened, revealing a sleepy-looking rainbow-haired Bianca Brighton in flannel pajamas. She tilted her head, listening for something. Her eyes went wide at whatever she heard, then she dashed into the room and snatched the tablet from Blaine. Lynn and Bobby peered out after her.
“Ooh. Oh, no.” She shook her head. “Lane, please tell me exactly what the vampires who turned you guys looked like.”
“Uhm. Uh.” I hemmed and hawed so much I could have been a sewing machine. Pete lowered his face into his hands. Dave hunched his shoulders and stared at nothing. “I don’t remember. None of us do.”
“Crap on a crap cracker.” Blaine sighed heavier than all the funky stank bass Dave had laid down on stage the night before. “And Henry can’t help you remember, either. He’s in Vermont.”
“Maybe Horace and I can help with this.” Bianca beckoned me toward the small breakfast table by the suite’s kitchen.
“What’s this about?” I sat down.
“That witness LORA mentioned is Professor Nate Watkins.” She sat across from me and leaned her elbows on the table, reaching her hands across. “He’s the reason no one pressed charges against you and the other guys when you got turned. He heard someone talking about spiking your drinks and making you irresistible to vampires so they’d turn you.”
“Really?” I couldn’t look up after Bianca blurted the details I hadn’t told anyone. I couldn’t handle the disgusting truth that we’d been turned against our will any better seventeen years after the fact than the night it happened. All four of our lives had been taken, but the nature of vampirism left us all lingering, and I’d been trapped in a continuum of depression and angst the whole time. All I could do was stare at the mottled manmade marble top of the hotel breakfast table. It was green with black flecks. I’ll never forget it. I’d never forget Tinfoil Hat’s reaction, either.
“Dude. That sucks.” Ren Ichiro crossed his arms over his chest and scowled through the doorway. “We can make things even worse for whoever did that to you guys.”
“Yeah, literally and figuratively.” Blaine’s nose puffed out even thicker smoke.
“And I thought I couldn’t get any more pissed off.” Lynn’s teeth ground audibly. Bobby’s answering growl rose in harmony with his mate’s anger.
“Someone should cut off all their legs.” Beth’s usually open face twisted in a snarl. “I volunteer as Tribute.”
“As long as I’m Tribute from another District, Beth.” Nox cracked her knuckles.
“Honorable combat is too good for that sort of miscreant.” Albert’s right hand went to his left hip even though he wasn’t wearing his sword.
I could have cried and almost did. Pete sniffled to my right. I turned and saw him sitting on the floor with Dave crouching nearby, the bassist’s face wet with tears even though he didn’t make a sound. Whatever higher power had dreamed up vampirism and denied us enjoying food while giving us the near-constant thirst had at least left us with the ability to cry about it.
“Okay, then.” I turned to look at Bianca again. “What do you and this Horace guy have in mind?”
“Well, LORA mentioned related crimes with coincidental connections and all. She’s tracking stuff related to the Extramagus.” Bianca grinned but her gaze stayed steely. “If Professor Watkins witnessed all of them, all we have to do is figure out what that connection is, and we’ll have enough evidence for the police to take the guy into custody. We won’t have to do this on our own anymore.”
“It seems like a whole crowd of people besides Night Creatures cares about this.” I shrugged. “So, how do we find the right connection if LORA doesn’t have it?”
“Mediums like me are the only living folks who can see and hear ghosts, but we can also communicate with other incorporeal people. I’ve been talking to all the ghosts Horace can find, trying to track down the Watkins brothers. So far, we haven’t found them, which means they’re not dead.” Bianca pressed her lips into a thin, pale line. “It means Professor Watkins is out of his body because that’s his Psychic ability—Projection. We know where his body is, so I’ll be able to talk to him with a bit of extra effort. I’ll need some information from around here, too, but this is all connected to something that affects you personally. I won’t do it unless you’re all okay with that stuff getting brought up again.”
I nodded. “Do it.” Pete and Dave mumbled their agreement.
“Okay.” Bianca stretched her lips in a thin smile. “I need to borrow Pete for about an hour at sunset.” She headed for the door, my drummer following. “Come on, Horace,” she said to thin air, “we’ve got more work to do.”
Chapter Ten
Good Song Hunting
“Nineties songs?” Pete snorted. “We’ve got this one in the bag.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Dave pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then sighed and took a few deep breaths to focus his Psychic energy. “We have to read that list and be ready to pick something different if The Jack Steele Band takes one of the songs we wanted to do.”
“It sucks that they can’t just tell us which ones they picked.” Irina straightened the spangled vest she had on over a shirt that looked like it belonged at a Renaissance Festival. “That reeks of unfairness.”
“It wouldn’t be much of a battle if we knew.” I shrugged. “Besides, they had to change one of their choices when we did that James Brown number last night.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe that was only twenty-four hours ago.”
“Yeah, I know.” Pete skimmed the list, running a finger down the paper. “Hey, how about a little GNR? A violinist will tear those guitar solos apart.”
“I’m down for that.” Irina smiled. “What else?”
“Why don’t you pick one this time?” Dave shook his head violently, testing the Telekinesis that kept his glasses on.
“Okay. I wanna do that Spacehog one.”
“Are you serious?” I blinked, wondering how she’d pull that one off.
“Yeah.” She nodded. “It’s a challenge, but I’ve been working on my own cover of it for YouTube. Fred’s doing the vocals, but he’s on a Quest right now, so I don't want to get rusty on it.”
“That’s two songs in the bag, then.” Pete smiled. “Pick one, Dave.”
“This bites.” He sighed. “There’s no Chili Peppers on this list. Were the judges even listening to music in the nineties?”
“Dunno. Maybe they thought it’d be unfair.” I shrugged. “Would you really want to risk battling with Peppers songs, anyway? Jack has an upright bass.”
“That gave them an advantage on all those songs from the disco last night.” Dave scratched his head. “Okay, I have it. That.” He tapped the paper with one finger.
“Good choice, but we should cut down the extra choruses and some of the instrumentals.” I jotted some notes on the back of the sheet. The others nodded. I knew they were all solid enough to make the changes. “The crowd will love that one, and with Irina here, we can totally pull it off.”
We listened to the Jack Steele Band up there, making the crowd go wild. They’d picked popular songs, every choice a number-one hit. They’d decided to cater to the audience, who had mostly grown up listening to music from the nineties, but they had no fire in their performance. During lessons, Jack had always told me how mediocre and baroque recent pop music was. He’d refused to teach me with it, telling me how the raw bones were more important than that ubiquitous wall of sound.
I shut my eyes, remembering. If the judges had gone a decade earlier, we’d have lost this round before we even stepped onstage. Jack had taught me on post-punk because it was so bare and intense. My hands curled as I pictured myself back in his Pawtucket basement apartment, making the chords for Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division. I shook off the memory but kept the melancholy that always followed those lyrics. I’d need it if we were opening with November Rain.
But we couldn’t. We had to scramble to choose another song because that jerkwad Jack decided to close his set with it. I kept my eyes shut, listening to them bicker.
“What about this?”
“No. No Marilyn Manson. I can’t stand them.”
“Okay, then. How about this?”
“I mean, we could try it, but I don’t know anything by Train.”
“Give me that.” I opened my eyes and snatched the list from Irina. “Here. We’ll do this.”
“I can’t believe he picked that one.” Pete’s eyebrows went so far up, I thought they’d merge with his hair. “Are you sure you can handle it, Lane?”
“I can sing anything, mofo.” I flicked his ear. “Even that one.”
“I don’t know, Lane.” Irina’s face was crinkled like she’d just sucked on a lemon or something. “Maybe I should sing it. I mean, contextually, it’s going to be super weird.”
“Why?”
“Uh, because you’re a guy?” Irina made a grimace that was probably supposed to be a grin but had an extra helping of awkward.
“I’m a vampire.” I flipped my freshly touched-up green hair, throwing all my weight on one foot and striking a pose worthy of Posh Spice. “And I’m Lane fracking Meyer. I’ll sing what I want. The rest of you guys had better punk up the music, though.”
“No problem!” Dave actually pumped his fist in the air, practically hyperactive compared to the laid-back bassist demeanor he usually affected.
We ran up onstage, waving. Once Pete was behind the drum set where he belonged, we got right to it, starting with Irina’s pick, In the Meantime by Spacehog. The crowd went nuts. I thought Jack had made a mistake by only choosing songs by American bands.
I’d always imagined the lyrics were a message from an outside species to the human race. As a vampire singing them to a largely human, or at least mortal audience, it felt truer somehow. I put my arms out, as though I could somehow hug that crowd, and serenaded them with the sentiment about loving them all in the meantime. Their applause hugged me back.
I let Irina lead into the next song, beginning what would have been a piano intro at a Meatloaf concert. She nailed it better than a carpenter at a construction site. When I started singing, the violin floated under my voice like a breeze does when you put your hand out a car window into the slipstream. Singing about what I’d do for love and what I wouldn’t felt like smelling coffee, or maybe a dash of cold water to the face. It woke me up, and I understood the song. Finally.
When Irina belted out the lines in the bridge, it almost conjured Fred to my mind. The only reason Irina Kazynski wasn’t a front man was that she was a front woman. She had to know what it was like, having groupies looking for a memory or a story to tell at parties. Fred had decided to dedicate every heroic deed he did in the Under to her, and she’d accepted that. Now I knew why. Every performance needs a specific audience—someone to pitch it to. And there was no better person to devote the rest of this contest to than Margot Malone. She had become my proof there could be life after undeath.
Maybe that dedication and not the fact that I was Lane fracking Meyer as I’d bragged was the reason song number three ended up rocking so hard. I had realized its potential, and it made me achieve liftoff. Pure joy, the contagious kind, bubbled up from my center for the first time in what felt like ages. Bitch by Meredith Brooks turned out to be the jewel in the crown of our set.
When I sang about being a sinner and a saint without being ashamed, I thought about how everyone was each of those things at some point. The song wasn’t particularly brilliant, but that was the way of popular music. Stones have to be tumbled, cut, and polished if you want them to shine. We’d found a diamond amongst the quartzes and jaspers and managed to put our own sparkle on it.
The applause was like thunder, even in that outdoor venue. I held my arms up, waving, then bowing, seeing Irina salute the crowd with her bow and Pete clapping his drumsticks together. Even Dave bounced around, hugging his bass and not worrying about whether his glasses stayed on. I tried saying thanks into the mic, but the sound techs had already turned it off.
When the lights dimmed, I cried. Matt hadn’t been there, and he should have been. I headed off the stage, the other three trailing behind me as I wiped my face on my forearm. When I lowered it, I smelled something delicious. No one was there, though. Irina ran right into me, and I fell on my face. The stiletto on a high-heeled shoe almost ran my eye through. I gasped, then turned my head, looking for someone to help me up.
“Well, this is a huge surprise.” The familiar voice wasn’t the one I wanted to hear. In fact, it was one I’d just as soon never listen to again.
“Paul. How’s it hanging?”
“Way lower than you’ll be.” The Mafioso’s
mouth tilted down at the corners as he stomped over to me. “Would you look at this, John? Our boss decides to help Lane out, and he goes insane. Does a crazy thing like icing a dame. The odds ain’t ever in your favor no more.”
“What the fu—” John’s fist introduced itself to Dave’s jaw before he could get the other half of that word out. My bassist hurtled backward into an instrument rack.
“And after that brilliant performance, too.” Paul shook his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth a few times.
I saw Pete take up a fighting stance, relieved to see he might kick more than a bass drum tonight, but then something flew out of John’s hand, hit Pete in the chest, and stuck there. A stake. He fell on his back in front of me across something that made a smack instead of a thud and released more of that delicious smell from before. I opened my mouth, unable to stop myself from baring my fangs. I glanced back at the shoe, noticing the foot in it this time.
Irina screamed, then lifted her violin. That was the only thing that saved her. John and Paul both had their hands on the butts of the pistols in their shoulder holsters. The notes pouring out of Irina’s instrument weren’t soothing. She couldn’t have managed that while facing off against two hardcases who hadn’t even touched their shifter forms yet. Instead, her music inspired abject terror, primal and startling—a feeling like standing in front of a jackknifing eighteen-wheeler.
Paul turned tail and ran, and John grew a tail. Flight and fight in the same duo; what were the chances? Unfortunately, Irina couldn’t fight John now that he was a fear-fueled half-ton lion. John roared, his tail twitching as he crouched in front of the violinist. I shouted for help.
“You need a miracle!” The new voice was familiar too, but such a relief. An imp stood between the Roman lion and Irina Kazynski, their little hands held out on spindly arms. “Scat!”
The imp snapped their fingers, and the lion shifter vanished with a pop. Irina stopped playing, and Dave groaned. I pushed up from the floor with my hands.
