“I’m sorry, child.” He takes a sip of coffee. “It ain’t easy getting old at any age.”
Monroe still has the face of a twenty-seven-year-old man, though he comports himself like the ancient vampire he is. An aspiring Delta-blues guitarist back in the thirties, he went to a Mississippi crossroads at midnight to meet the devil, in the hopes he’d become a prodigy. Instead he found the vampire who would give him a different kind of immortality.
“What do you do to stay sane?” I ask him. “You’re almost a hundred now, and you’re not crazy like Jim was.”
“I probably am, just in a different sorta way.”
“In a way that doesn’t kill people and make a million maniacal progeny.”
The station’s phone rings. I glance at the extension on the nearby side table. It’s the studio line, probably someone making a request. I let Shane answer it.
“One thing I do,” Monroe says, “is I keep to myself.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
“It’s hard when you got friends. They take it personal, like you don’t like them anymore. But you gotta take care of yourself first. No one else will.”
“Shane will.”
“For now. But he’s fifteen years older than you. What if he fades first? What if he dies?”
It’s hard to breathe when I picture that. “I can’t think about it when I’m trying to survive myself.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Let him worry about him and you worry about you. Then you worry about each other.”
That makes a strange kind of sense, and reminds me of the way I used to think years ago when I was a con artist. I put myself first, but I wasn’t a total bitch. I cared about people. I had Lori.
“So you’re saying if I want to stay sane, I need to be alone?”
“Not be alone. Be by yourself.” Monroe sets down his coffee cup and slides it slowly across the table, just past the halfway mark. It comes to a halt two inches from mine, his fingers still resting on the handle. “You ain’t never gonna be alone.”
I slide my own mug to close the gap, leaving my hand on the smooth ceramic surface after the soft clink.
The phone rings again. Shane is still on the line with his caller. I sigh and go to answer it, irritated at the interruption to a rare moment of genuine connection with my maker.
“WVMP, the Lifeblood of Rock ’n’ Roll.” I keep my voice chirpy. “How can I help you?”
For a moment, nothing. Then a woman’s sob.
“Hello?” I try not to sound annoyed. People request songs in all moods, but especially heartbroken.
“Is Shane there?” she asks.
“I’m sorry, he’s on another line. May I take a message or—”
“What about Jim? Where is that son of a bitch?”
Beside me, Monroe tenses visibly.
“Jim no longer works here,” I tell the caller.
A shocked gasp. “Where’d he go?”
“I’m not sure which station he moved on to. But he’s not coming back to WVMP.”
“Then I need to talk to Shane.”
The voice sounds vaguely familiar. “Can I have your name?”
“It’s Deirdre.”
My heart flutters. “Shane’s, um, friend who used to live off Greene Street?”
“I’m still here. What’s left of me, anyway, after Jim was through.”
Deirdre was once one of Shane’s donors, but he traded her to Jim after we started dating. The vampire’s bite is such an intimate experience, Shane wanted to show his commitment to me as a boyfriend by not putting his mouth on other women.
But after Jim went into Control custody, we contacted his donors to let them know he wouldn’t be visiting them anymore. According to Jim’s records, he hadn’t seen Deirdre in months because she’d supposedly moved away.
The studio line goes dim. “Deirdre, Shane’s free now. Hang on.”
I put her on hold and race down the hall to the studio. The ON THE AIR sign is dim, and a Robyn Hitchcock tune is playing over the speakers. I peer through the studio window to see Shane flipping through a stack of CDs.
He motions me inside. “What’s up? Who’s on the phone?”
“Deirdre.”
Shane’s fingers freeze, their tips barely curled under the flipped-open CD. “My Deirdre? I mean—Jim’s Deirdre?”
“Yes, your Deirdre.” I clear my throat to erase the jealousy. “Something’s wrong.”
He slowly picks up the phone. “Deirdre, what’s wrong?” He listens for a moment, then holds out his palm, as if she’s standing in front of him. “Slow down. What do you need?”
Through the receiver I hear the word “blood.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane says, “you can’t be my donor anymore. Maybe Regina or—oh. Oh God. Oh, no.” He leaps out of the chair, smacking it against the table holding the DJs’ equipment. Good thing he was playing a CD and not a vinyl record or it would’ve skipped.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
His head jerks up so he can see the clock. “I’m off at three a.m.,” he says into the phone. “We’ll come help you.”
7
Sour Girl
The nature of Deirdre’s emergency sounds time-consuming, so before heading to her place, Shane and I stop home to feed our vampire dog, Dexter, and take him for a walk. I offered to come home on my own to take care of Dexter, but ever since the Halloween bombing, Shane won’t let me out of his sight unless absolutely necessary.
Deirdre lives in the same cute town house as always. But no flowers line the walkway now, and the roof is missing several shingles.
A rolled-up note on blue paper protrudes through the curved handle of the screen door. I pull it out—just to bring it to her, I tell myself, not to snoop. In big print, the words FINAL NOTICE catch my eye.
“It’s open!” she says when Shane knocks.
Deirdre greets us in the dark kitchen just inside the door, a bottle of red wine—the cheap stuff, nothing like what she used to have—in one hand, a pair of wineglasses in the other.
“I started without you.” She sets the bottle on the counter with a hollow clonk. “Oh, you brought her again. Just like old times.” Her laughter is weak, like the rest of her. Deirdre slumps against the counter, pawing through a forest of empty wine bottles and plastic shopping bags.
I head to the microwave and start heating one of the servings of blood we brought from the station. I refrigerate the other four servings in their brown paper shopping bag.
“Here they are.” Deirdre finds what she’s looking for: a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “So—hey!”
She protests as Shane’s hand zips out, faster than a snake, tearing the lighter away from her.
“You’re too young to use fire,” he says.
“Jim used to let me light my own.” When Shane holds out his hand, she reluctantly gives him the cigarette. He lights it for her and hands it back, grimacing at the taste.
Smoking itself isn’t dangerous for vampires of any age: we can’t get cancer or other diseases. But the act of lighting up, combined with carelessness or a stray breeze, can instantly turn us youngsters into a pile of nothing. We should all wear T-shirts that say WARNING: FLAMMABLE.
“When did Jim turn you?” Shane asks.
She blows out the smoke and rubs her nose. “Last December. Just in time for Christmas, the prick.”
I try to point out the bright side. “At least it was a dark time of year. Not much daylight in—”
“I lost my kid!” Deirdre flails her hand at the stairs behind her. “I had to give him to my ex-husband. That asshole has full custody now, and my poor baby thinks I don’t . . . that I don’t love him.” She starts to cry. “When I do see my son, I can barely hug him for two seconds, and then I have to push him away so I don’t bite. He smells so good,” she finishes in a whisper.
Shane lowers his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how hard that is.”
“No, you can’t.” She gulps a co
uple of breaths to stop crying. “What good is living forever when you lose everything worth living for?”
The microwave beeps. Quietly I fetch the last clean wineglass and pour Deirdre a drink of blood. My foot brushes a stuffed blue dog her kid must have left behind.
“Come on.” He puts a gentle hand on the back of her shoulder. “Let’s sit and talk.”
Deirdre leans into him as we walk downstairs into the living room. A large window looms over us. No way would its torn shade block all the sunlight.
“That’s where I sleep.” She points her cigarette at the storage room under the stairs. “Only safe place in the house.”
I peek inside. Despite the utility-type remnants, like a toolbox and vinyl shelves, it looks like a decent fallout shelter bedroom. A thick towel hangs over the knob—probably to stuff into the crack beneath the door to block every photon of sunlight.
“It was an accident.” Deirdre sinks onto the couch and taps her cigarette into the ashtray. “I don’t know if that makes it worse or better.”
“Jim drank you too deep?” Shane sits beside her, but not close enough to touch.
“Jim always drank me too deep. He wasn’t careful like you.” She shrugs. “At first I loved that about him. I always had a thing for bad boys. Like my ex.” Deirdre gives Shane a look of longing. “You were the exception to my rule. My one white knight.”
I clear my throat. “Did Jim take care of you after he made you a vampire?”
“For a few weeks he was great, then he got bored, I guess. I almost starved to death a couple times.”
The longest I’ve been without blood was twelve hours, and it was hell. The physical symptoms—thirst, weakness, bone-creaking chills—aren’t even the worst. It’s the way our minds change. Suddenly it seems okay to kill.
And all that soul-shriveling misery can be swept away with one slurp of a blood-filled sippy cup.
“I’m so sorry,” Shane tells Deirdre again. “If I hadn’t—” He cuts himself off before he can say what we’re all thinking: if he hadn’t traded Deirdre to Jim, she’d still be alive.
It was her choice to stay with Jim, of course. But vampires are as addictive as any drug, and no one as abusive as Jim would ever be easy to leave, even if one wanted to.
To my relief, Deirdre shakes her head. “It’s not your fault, Shane. You trading me to Jim was the right thing for all of us—at the time, at least. You had no idea he’d go crazy.” She takes a long gulp of blood, closing her eyes with relief, then a drag on her cigarette. “Where’s he been, anyway?”
“In Control custody.”
“Oh my God!” She coughs on her smoke. “Why?”
“ ‘Why’?” My voice twists. “Because he was a psychopath. He should’ve been locked up a lot sooner.”
Shane’s tone stays gentle. “He attacked Ciara, among other things.”
“He almost killed my sixteen-year-old cousin,” I tell her. “And he tore my throat to shreds.”
Deirdre hunches in on herself, crossing her arms and closing her legs. “I’m not surprised. Nothing was ever totally against my will, but sometimes it came really close to the line.”
I nod. Jeremy told me back in April that Jim had come up with some new donor game that made him really uncomfortable. He’s developing a taste for fear, he said.
“So now what?” Deirdre makes a weak attempt at a grand two-handed gesture. “What’s to become of my glamorous immortal life?”
“You’re one of us.” I hear the words after they’ve left my mouth.
Shane looks surprised.
“She is,” I tell him, “as much as I am. Jim made her, and he was one of us, just like Monroe.” I turn back to Deirdre. “We’ll make sure you get enough to drink. Did Jim teach you how to bite?”
Her gaze thunks to the floor. “Not safely.”
Oh God. She’s hurt a human. No wonder she’s hiding out here.
“I can’t train you, Deirdre,” Shane says. “It would be, you know—”
“Too sexy?” she says with a sneer. “Jim says there are no rules and no barriers when it comes to vampires. Everyone does everyone and everything.”
“Remember when we said Jim is a psychopath?” I snapped.
“Ciara and I are engaged.” Shane points to my left hand. “So I won’t be doing anything without her.”
“I don’t mind if she comes along, remember?” She reaches for Shane. “You can teach both of us together.”
He stands up, out of arm’s length. “No.”
That seductive longing in her eyes is ten times as strong as it was when she was a human. I can see it now as clearly as if it were yesterday: Deirdre spread-eagled on her bed, begging Shane to fuck her, withholding the blood he needed until he agreed (which he wouldn’t). We weren’t even dating then, but it was awkward with me sitting across the room. Really awkward.
“I don’t know the other vampire DJs.” Deirdre seems to shrink into herself again. “Jim never introduced us. Maybe he was ashamed of me.”
“I’m sure it was nothing personal,” I tell her. “You were the twenty-fourth vampire he made. If he brought all of his offspring to every party, it’d be really crowded.”
She stares at me. “Twenty-four?”
“He was going to turn my cousin. He said she would’ve been his twenty-fifth.”
“He was going to turn a child into a vampire? Who does he think he is, Lestat?”
“He was doing it to coerce me, but yeah, he probably would’ve changed her, no matter what I did.” Deirdre’s anger encourages me. Maybe it’ll be a rope to help her climb out of her sorrow.
“So the Control busted in and saved the day?” she asks.
“Monroe staked him with a handful of pencils.”
“Staked? But you said he was in custody.” Deirdre puts a hand to her own chest. “Besides, Jim told me I’d be in agony if he died.” Her face turns stormy. “Or did he just say that to keep me from killing him?”
“He’s not dead.” Shane rubs his forehead with the side of his hand. “The Control agents got there before we could pull out the stake—pencils, whatever. They took him.”
Her jaw drops. “They wouldn’t put him out of his misery?”
“They said they could give him something for the pain,” I tell her.
“That’s crazy.” She turns to Shane. “Were you there when this happened? Why didn’t you pull out the stakes?”
“I was ordered not to.”
“Since when do you take orders from anyone?”
“Since we joined the Control. It wasn’t voluntary.” Shane lifts his gaze to mine. “But I’m not sorry.”
“I thought you looked different.” Deirdre stands and faces him straight on, examining him from head to toe. “More confident, less . . . slackerish.”
Shane’s eyebrows twitch, like she’s insulted him but he doesn’t want to show it. “It’s temporary.”
“It better be.” She sighs and turns to the dark fireplace. “I’d like to keep living here, if it’s okay.”
“Good,” he says, “because there’s no room at the station, and you’re not living at our apartment.”
“I get that.” She heads for the stairs—to show us out, I guess. “You and I have a past. It’d be awkward.” Deirdre emphasizes the last word of each sentence as if to mock them.
Shane rolls his eyes at me, then follows her. “I’ll talk to the other vampires about taking you on as an apprentice.”
I head up after them. “Noah’d be a good match, don’t you think, Shane?”
“Ooh, Noah!” Her step takes on a bounce. “I saw him at a show once. He’s cute.”
Noah’s Rasta pacifism is just what Deirdre needs to balance her own wild tendencies. She was reckless to begin with, and with Jim’s blood in her now, she could be a powder keg without the steadying influence of a straight-edged mentor like Noah.
In the kitchen, Deirdre tries to hug Shane. He accepts it, but with stiff arms.
I point to the
fridge. “There’s a day’s worth of blood in there, so drink half of each container every three hours.” I turn the knob on the front door and swing it open. “We’ll bring more tomorrow and—”
Everything freezes.
Standing on the porch, mouth agape, fist raised to knock on the door, is Jim.
8
Paint It Black
Our eyes meet, and for one tick of the wall clock, I know that I am dead. Dead for good.
Something blurs between us. I leap back. Jim surges forward. As he rushes past me, I see his eyes go wide with—could it be fear? Not predatory fervor or a victorious gloat?
Shane smashes him against the wall next to the coatrack. Jim’s hands bounce against the coats, then rise, reaching for Shane’s throat.
A second blur and he stops. A third blur and he sinks to the floor as Shane steps back, right hand up in a defensive posture and left hand—
Oh.
In Shane’s left hand, a wooden stake drips blood.
“No . . . time,” Jim gasps, rolling over on his back, grasping for anything. A white faux fur coat falls across his lap. Within a few seconds, it’s soaked in a flood of scarlet.
Deirdre pulls in a squeaky breath, then another, making pre-scream noises. I shove the front door shut a second before she looses a caterwaul of grief and horror. The sound crawls up my spine and wants to burst out the top of my head.
Jim writhes under his fountain of blood, mouth opening and closing. He reaches toward me, pleading, just as he did the night Monroe staked him to save my life. I shake off my shock and prepare for another attack. If Shane’s blow missed, Jim will heal and be on us in a flash.
Shane stands over him, ready to strike again. His face is the cold stone of a professional assassin. Except this was no hit job. This was a split-second, kill-or-be-killed-along-with-your-fiancée situation.
Jim’s body goes limp.
“No!” Deirdre lurches forward, hands outstretched. Shane stops her.
“It’s not safe,” he says. “Get behind me. Both of you.”
But when he lets go of her, she drops to her knees next to Jim.
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