Oz Bites

by Mary Hughes

  It missed, though. The vamp’s eyes were a half foot over my head and not scaring me at all. So if I could just get over this stupid indecision, I had a moment or two as the rogue reformed to do…what? Slow him somehow, so Julian could reach me. But without weapons, how? Oh, for a cunning plan.

  I searched around me for something, anything, to use…

  Cunning plan, right. Devious weapons, sure.

  Or I could just use the pile of garden ornaments Mrs. Hrbek had everywhere.

  Where had the old Nixie gone that I hadn’t figured that out right away? I’d done this before, dammit, in November.

  I scooped up Harvey, thirty pounds of concrete pooka, and aimed him ears out. With a deep focusing breath I called on my old self, brash and confident and able to lay down an amazing riff at exactly the right instant.

  I felt rather than saw it. A bubble of compressed air as the body condensed, a slight warping as the vampire reformed. I shoved pooka into still-soft chest. The twin spears of Harvey-ears went straight into vampire heart.

  The rogue snapped solid. His eyes cooled to a pale, slightly puzzled blue. He glanced down at his chest. Plucked absently at the concrete embedded there.

  I pushed Harvey in just a little further.

  The vampire’s eyes rolled up into his head and he fell on his back like a rock.

  Julian formed two inches from my side, not coalescing over long moments but imploding, solid in microseconds. Well. Like breeding, training by Ancient Fucker showed.

  My husband formed fully vampire, battle-ready with sharp fangs and plated skin and long talons. He seized me with one arm, wrapped me in the shelter of his body. I felt his heart hammer under my ear, heard his nerves sing as he tensed himself to protect me.

  But the two younglings groaned on the ground. The beach-bum second was wrapped around concrete moose. The eldest vampire spawled at my feet, pooka butt sticking out of his chest. There was no one to fight.

  I looked up at Julian.

  “Damn me.” Julian grinned down at me, his fangs glinting. “This is why I love you.”

  “I thought it was the great sex.”

  “That too.”

  “Well, this three.” I turned him and with a dramatic sweep of hand, revealed the lawn ornament exposed when I’d snatched up Harvey.

  A Fulvous Flamingo.

  “Ah, Nixie. You are the light of my life.” Julian kissed me.

  He broke it off to phone for backup, which fortunately arrived before the rogues could recover. Actually, not a whole lot of luck was involved. Vampires heal fast, but flamingos swing just like golf clubs. And vampire skulls aren’t quite as indestructible as cheap brown plastic.

  “What’s wrong?” Julian’s stunning blue eyes rose from between my naked thighs. “The bugged flamingo is in Steel Security hands. Are you still worried about the pit?”

  “Partially.” We were in our basement bedroom and I was teaching Julian double-tonguing. Normally I’d enjoy that a helluva lot.

  But my remaining problems churned in the back of my mind. Not just how to fill a pit with professional players without paying them professional wages. Unfortunately.

  Julian searched my eyes intently. With a kiss for later, he sat up. “If not the pit, what’s bothering you?”

  I sat up too, hugged my knees. “It’s just… There’s so much to do. There’s you and the household and practicing for the Summerfest gig and arranging more gigs and spending time with my mom…what am I going to do when the kid comes? I’ll be the mom then and have even less time.”

  “The mom,” he said thoughtfully. “And now you’re the wife?”

  He was so smart. I hugged my knees harder. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m the wife and the helpmeet and the gig-booker and the daughter…when am I ever Nixie anymore?”

  I knew when to play society’s rhythm and when to do my own thing and solo. But how the hell would I survive as a punk pixie without any solos?

  “Sweetheart, it’s up to you to set limits. Tell some of these people no.”

  “Hey.” I released my knees to stare. “When all this started, that wasn’t your line. You were practically singing Amazing Grace to get me to say yes. And you were right.” I blew a disgruntled breath. “These people have needs too, real needs just as important as mine. Some are more important than mine.” His, the baby’s… “Julian, these people asking for my help. They need help. How do I have the right to say no?”

  He sat next to me, enfolded me in one strong, warm arm. “It’s an honor that people ask you for help. It means they think you have the talent and ability to truly address their needs. But Nixie…I was wrong.”

  More staring seemed in order. “You’re never wrong.”

  “In this case I was. Sweetheart, seeing that rogue charge you was the scariest moment of my life. I thought I was going to lose you.”

  “Losing a wife and child would scare anyone.”

  “No. Not just my wife and child but you. My Nixie, a unique and precious woman. I tried to put you into my mold…for the best of reasons and with good intentions, but it was wrong.” His gorgeous face was so serious. “So now I say, just because you can help doesn’t mean that you should.”

  “Right. The words are Amazing Grace but the tune is Gilligan’s Island.”

  He smiled slightly. “Even I get that cultural reference. But your offbeat humor and execrable metaphors—downgraded to quirky—are another example of what I mean. You’re unique, and I don’t ever want to change you. However.”

  “Oh sure.” I smiled. “There’s always a ‘but’.”

  He smiled back, quickly. “I don’t want you to say no, and wash your hands of everybody’s problems. I want you to play your unique, precious part—and let others play theirs.”

  Thank goodness for spousal silent communication because he read my look of Say wut? and explained.

  “In your band, Lob on drums keeps the beat and your singer does melody. You wouldn’t want your singer keeping the beat, or drums on melody, would you?”

  “Sometimes the drums play melody.”

  “As the exception, the interesting contrast.” He compressed his lips in thought. “Would you want a trumpet fanfare played by piccolos, or…or the Star Wars theme on kazoo?”

  That made me smile. “Hey, Suitguy. Stick to Renaissance references.”

  “Then it’s like marching viola da gamba.”

  “Considering a gamba’s held between the legs, it would actually be waddling viola da gamba…. Wait.” Play my part and let other instruments play theirs. The ideas jumbled together, then suddenly snapped into a new picture, cleaner, brighter.

  Sometimes a moment of truth comes on a crisis with trumpets blaring and fireworks exploding.

  Sometimes it’s quiet, but no less cataclysmic.

  In trying to do the right thing, for the all the right reasons including love, I’d lost the old Nixie, confident, brash pixie, and become an incompetent whinygirl. Or at least that was what it felt like.

  Now—the truth was that I didn’t have to fix me, but how I saw my world. Truth was, my world was full of other fine musicians, each playing their part.

  Together, we made one rocking band.

  I snatched my Juke off the nightstand and punched redial. “Other parts, Julian. A musician isn’t the best person to solve a pay problem—a business person is.”

  Julian smiled. “Did you know your eyes light up when have an idea?”

  “Says Mr. Blue Laser Special. Shh. I have to get this right.”

  The line connected.

  “Wurstspeicher Haus, sausage and gifts. This is Junior, how may I help you?”

  Ever the businesswoman…which was exactly the part I needed. “Junior, it’s Nixie. Say—when we were talking before, you said people geek for things other than cash.”

  “Different people have different incentives, I remember.” She spoke over the beep-boop of a scanner-register. Not so long ago her dad would have toted up product with his manual calculator bu
t Junior had dragged her parents kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. Junior had a good brain, and a phenomenal business brain. If anyone could help me, if anyone could play this part, she could.

  “You,” I said. “What would make you play the pit?”

  “Me?” There was a sudden silence, not even the electronic pops. Finally she said, “A Broadway show actually on Broadway. I’d jump at a chance to play in a Broadway pit, to make great music with professionals, with enough pay to send cash to the folks.”

  If the Broadway show were on Broadway. If wishes were players. It was a letdown. “Okay. Thanks.”

  I hung up and turned to Julian. His long face said he’d heard. I let my head fall back onto the headboard, making a nice stinging thud. Went with how I felt. “I understand what she’s saying. But that’s no solution. The show isn’t on Broadway, and even if it were, the New York musicians’ union would insist on putting their people in the pit.”

  Julian, ever the lawyer, said, “Unless you were to work a deal.”

  “Oh sure.” I shrugged. “Easy if Broadway were Meiers Corners or Chicago. I have pull here. But New York?” I blew air. “Not my part. Maybe doable if we had a ringer… But even Scary Ancient Dude doesn’t have a sub out east, not since you left Boston.”

  Julian’s head tilted. “Actually, we do.”

  “We do?” I blinked. Someone could play the part of Nixie in New York? “Who?”

  “Remember that New Year’s thing?” He was referring to a little assist we’d done to foil some vampire-haters in New York. “We saved Klaus and his gang a whole lot of pain. Klaus owes us.”

  “Well yeah, but…” I thought back. “We only played middleman… woman… whatever… between New York and Iowa. Klaus actually owes Scary Ancient. If we cash in that bargaining chip won’t he get his Ancient undies in a bundle?”

  “Possibly, but I don’t think so. We helped significantly in that encounter. Also, Klaus is a new ally and this would be a simple task to ease him into loyalty. I think the Ancient One would approve.” Julian paused. “Besides, if his ward is happy, he’ll be happy.”

  “Really? I never imagined Hardcore Spooky as henpecked.”

  “He isn’t.” Julian’s eyes were very blue on me. “He just cares for her that much.”

  “Uh huh. And you know this how?”

  “Empathy.” He flashed me a half-grin. “I’ll call Klaus.”

  Chapter Five

  And so we ended up making a deal with the AFM musicians union that if Oz, Wonderful Oz went to Broadway, any Meiers Corners musician who wanted to could go along.

  Junior and half a dozen others signed up the next day. With Junior’s help we hooked Rocky with a CD deal (local retailers selling her “Garage Band Mozart”) and Lob with a case of microbrew. Pit director was a bit harder until Rocky introduced us to a really good grad student, Junior did her business-motivation-reading-shtick to learn he wanted conducting experience for his resume, and I signed him up. Yeah, we each played our part, and it made for a sweet song.

  That night, as I was practicing alto sax and Julian was reading his big dusty law books, my Juke buzzed.

  That’s right, buzzed. That was weird because I have ring tones for everyone I know. Even generic and default numbers had tuneage, currently the theme from Get Smart, the old 60’s show, complete with shoop-bang door sounds.

  I picked the phone up, frowned at it. The readout said Unidentified Number. Buzzing, not shoop-banging.

  Weird. I swiveled it open. “Talk to me.”

  “Ms. Emerson.”

  That cave-deep voice, a sledgehammer of testosterone smacking me over the airwaves, identified him from my brain down to my shivery parts. The vampire who put the “Scary” in Ancient Fucker.

  Who I’d set up as theme from The X-Files. “How come you buzz instead of whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo?”

  I knew the instant the words left my mouth that it made no sense. But he said, “The X-Files is primarily about aliens, Ms. Emerson, not vampires.”

  I got a little scary-thrill at that…which kept me from realizing he hadn’t answered the real question until it was too late and he was going on—tricky old fuck.

  “Ms. Emerson. I’m calling to thank you for fielding a proper pit orchestra for Mishela.”

  “Mishela…?”

  Julian made braid-motions next to his cheeks.

  Oh, Dorothy. “Yeah, no problem. Much. Um.” I cleared my throat. “We did have to call in your New York bargaining chip.”

  “A rather creative use of resources, Ms. Emerson, but it worked. Mishela is pleased and I am grateful.”

  Wow. He really was a softy where the kid was concerned. I tried to reconcile that dark masculine voice with gooey Dad eyes, had a brain upchuck.

  “Of course,” the Ancient One went on, “each favor Klaus does for us links him more inexorably to us.”

  Whew. Emperor d’Fang was back.

  “By the way, Steel Security was able to reverse engineer a solution to your little flamingo infestation.”

  “A locator? Or something that fries them?”

  “Shorting the bugs out would only alert the opposition that we’re aware of them. No, Steel Security has come up with something even better—a bug that piggybacks the signal. It’ll take a couple months to manufacture but then we’ll not only hear everything the opposition hears, we can do some creative adjusting of what they hear.”

  “Nice.”

  “Which leads me to the reason I called. Ms. Emerson, you resolved two rather sticky problems, and I’m grateful. If you have a request that I can address, I would be happy to accommodate you.”

  Whoa. Was he saying he owed me? From a being older than the pyramids, this was no small thing. I felt like a kid who’d rubbed a lamp to polish it up and got a cosmic-assed genie. What would I ask?

  Yeah, only one thing. One terribly embarrassing, horribly inquisitive thing.

  I set my sax on its stand and got to my feet. When my hubby rose too, I waved him down. To be absolutely sure I wouldn’t be overheard by Mr. Nosy-Husband Vampire, I headed out into the bright sunshine before I made my wish.

  “Hey, Scary Ancient Dude. Do you know a Position Six?”

  The Ancient One laughed, a full, dark chuckle that slid over my skin like sex cream. “That’s a bit inappropriate. But, coming from you, not unexpected.”

  “Inappropriate?” Blood warmed my cheeks as the reproach triggered old recordings of scolding teachers, and leftover angst of the Totally Appropriate Boston attorney rejecting me. I automatically defended myself. “It’s not. Consenting sex between two adults is perfectly natural—”

  “You’re a married woman asking another male about sex. Not quite the done thing, is it? At least, not usually. Ah, well, you probably see me as old, doddering and completely harmless. Unless you’ve generously pictured me as a somewhat dynamic Gandalf or Dumbledore.”

  My cheeks grew hotter. I had imagined him the kindly old doctor, dispensing wisdom in times of need. Rather a disconnect with that sex-cave voice…hey, he knew media references from this century, unlike my dear Suitguy. Apparently all millennia-old vampires weren’t total x86 old school. “So you don’t know a Six? Or you won’t tell me?”

  He chuckled again. Damn, the way that deep pleasure rippled over my skin should’ve had me screaming and running back inside for husbandly demonstrations of positions One through Five and back to One. “I won’t discuss sex with my operatives’ spouses. But I can point you toward a few things you might consider.”

  He’d point me. I might consider. Vague as hell, his modus operandi. Unless he just had incredibly refined sensibilities.

  Nah, his cryptic little sayings were so annoying they had to be on purpose.

  “Okay. Thanks.” I carefully kept any sarcasm out of my tone.

  “You’re welcome.” He didn’t keep the sarcasm out of his, although it was so light it feathered against my sensibilities…phooey. He said, “Simply take what already works for you
as a couple, and build on it. For example, do you prefer your encounters face to face? Light touch or full contact?”

  “I prefer—”

  “Don’t answer me, Ms. Emerson. I’m simply supposing. I don’t really want to hear the details of your love life.” His tone was dry.

  “Right. Okay. Um, supposing we liked face—”

  “Not another word.”

  “But—”

  “Ms. Emerson.” A soft breath of air came over the phone. In such a powerful, self-controlled being, I could only interpret it as a deep sigh. “You’re looking for an innovative way to be intimate during pregnancy because you believe it will take something new to get your husband’s attention. I say there is nothing that he does not already know.”

  “Ouch. He’s not quite as old as dirt.” It was out of my mouth before I remembered this was one of maybe five beings perceptive enough to fill in the final, “Like you.”

  I sweated a silence.

  Finally he said, “Let me make this simple for you. As a musician, you know all the notes have been used before.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “But not by you. Theme and variation, Ms. Emerson.”

  “Theme and what?”

  “Theme is a pattern that’s repeated. Variation is the pattern with a change.”

  “Sweet chocolate Chopsticks, I know what theme and variation is!”

  “Good, then.” Somehow he made his tone both neutral and laughing at me. “Try a variation of what already works between you and your husband. Goodbye.”

  “That,” I dared to say before he could hang up, “is the problem. We’ve tried all the variations. Two is cowgirl, Three is chair cow—”

  “Thank you for those images,” he said in a tone that meant “where is the eyebleach”. “Ms. Emerson. You want a new position? I suggest you review your saddles.”

  This time he hung up without a goodbye.

  Late that evening, Julian and I were naked on the living room couch, and I’d already told my tall, muscular, black-haired and blue-eyed husband we were doing Two.