Vamparazzi

by Laura Resnick

  A thick crowd of people gathered around the taxi as soon as it came to a halt. Some of them were wearing ordinary street clothing, but others wore costumes so elaborate they would need special assistance to maneuver their butts into their theater seats later—if they’d been able to get tickets to one of tonight’s sold-out performances. Some of the costumes were professional-looking creations that included fanciful wings, spiderwebs, hooves, or talons. Other fans were wearing all-purpose goth or bondage outfits—some of which were less than perfectly flattering to the wearers.

  Our cab driver flinched and uttered a startled curse when two people whose costumes were disturbingly realistic imitations of bloodless corpses flung themselves across the windshield of the car to peer inside at all of us. I hastily rolled up my window when a toothy monster tried to reach into the car to grab me.

  Another flashbulb went off in my face as someone tried to capture the moment. Since the fans surely knew the sight of Daemon’s car by now, I supposed they were rushing our cab because they were just eager to catch a glimpse of anyone associated with the show.

  A cape-clad creature with a rotting face thudded its fist on the hood of the car.

  The cab driver sputtered, “Who are these ... these . . .”

  A growling, hissing vampire suddenly tried to open Leischneudel’s locked door. My startled companion scooted closer to me.

  Our agitated driver said, “What are these ... these . . .”

  “These,” I said wearily, “are the vamparazzi.”

  3

  “They’re what?”

  “Vamparazzi,” I repeated.

  It was the name that Leischneudel and I had given to the combination of paparazzi and vampire groupies that swarmed around Daemon Ravel and The Vampyre.

  Our disoriented driver said, “I’m going to have to let you folks out here.”

  “No, tell that cop who’s coming this way now that we’re cast members,” I said. “He’ll let you through.”

  Leischneudel said anxiously, “We’d like to be dropped off as close to the stage door as possible.” After another look at the bizarre crowd pressing their bodies up against the cab, he added, “If you could drive up onto the sidewalk and get right next to the door, that would be good.”

  A uniformed cop approached the cab, making his way through the excited throng of wannabe vampires, tabloid photographers, and young women dressed as Miss Jane Aubrey.

  “This is crazy,” said our driver.

  “No one in this car is disputing that point,” I said.

  A young woman wearing white body paint, a skimpy red outfit that had to be very uncomfortable on this chilly autumn night, and big red wings smiled at me through the window, revealing a row of sharp fangs. Ahead of us, a good-looking man dressed exactly like Daemon’s character in He of the Night was escorting a woman across the crowded street, heading in the direction of the theater. His companion was wearing a long, hooded cloak. Although she tripped on her hem, she nonetheless seemed more sensibly garbed than the two women who crossed the street next, both wearing black corsets, fishnet stockings, and not much else.

  The cab driver spoke to the cop, who recognized me and Leischneudel and agreed to let the car through the barricade. As we rolled slowly down the street, traveling toward the stage door, we passed far more people than could fit into the theater tonight—even over the course of two performances.

  “The Janes look chilly tonight,” Leischneudel observed, nodding toward a group of bare-armed young women whose white Regency gowns were as low-cut as the one I wore onstage.

  “Well, yes. It’s November,” I said. “I think this is an example of natural selection in action.”

  “Do you see her?” he asked. “The one who attacked you?”

  I studied the women in the bright glow of the lights along this crowded street. “I don’t know.”

  It was hard to tell, since they all looked roughly the same—like me in my costume.

  After a moment, I added, “Ah, but I do see some familiar faces.”

  The vamparazzi didn’t consist solely of Daemon’s ardent fans. A few of them were his vehement detractors. My favorites among these were earnest protesters from the Society for the Scientific Study of Vampires (SSSV). The same three people from SSSV showed up outside the theater about once a week, and I suspected the bespectacled trio was the society’s entire membership.

  Spotting their picket signs in the crowd, Leischneudel said without enthusiasm, “They’re back? I kind of hoped they had gone away for good.”

  “Oh, I would be so disappointed if they did that,” I said.

  The SSSV protesters challenged Daemon’s claim of being a real vampire and demanded that he submit to scientific testing. Personally, I liked the idea of Daemon spending a couple of days being poked and prodded by skeptics. However, he brushed off their demands with a combination of smug dismissal and vapid vagueness that evidently satisfied his fans—who verbally abused the SSSV protesters whenever they showed up at the theater (which was perhaps why the trio didn’t come more often).

  I had originally supposed that, as critics of Daemon’s behavior, the SSSVers would be natural allies with another group of detractors whom our taxi crept slowly past tonight.

  “Hey, look, Vampire Recovery is here, too,” I said to Leischneudel, pointing them out. “It’s a full house tonight. All the misfits are on board.”

  Vampire Recovery (greater New York metropolitan area membership: seven) wanted to help Daemon transition to “inactive/dormant status” and thus embrace a lifestyle free of active vampirism (though not, I noted from their outfits, free of the ubiquitous black clothing).

  Despite condemning Daemon’s vampire lifestyle, VR had actually turned out to be the SSSV’s most bitter enemy, since the former insisted that the actor’s vampirism was a serious affliction while the latter declared it was baseless nonsense. This ideological chasm had led to a short-lived rumble between the two tiny groups on our opening night. It ended when one of the recovering vamps got a nosebleed and fled down the street, pursued by mad scientists eager to test his blood for proof of vampirism. Since then, both groups had been intimidated into somewhat subdued behavior—not by the exasperated cops, but by vamparazzi who insisted, with leather-clad aggression, that Daemon had every right to remain an active vampire and also to refuse to be scientifically tested like some lab rat.

  Seeing several Vampire Recovery reps hovering near the theater, presumably planning to heckle Daemon when he arrived, Leischneudel said wanly, “I wish we could just beam into the theater via a transporter device, like they do on Star Trek.”

  He was always fine once he was in costume, in character, and waiting in the wings for his first cue; onstage, he was a consummate, focused professional. But he found all this stuff a nerve-racking ordeal. I found it a distraction and a nuisance, but as long as I wasn’t, oh, being physically assaulted, the bizarre nightly commotion didn’t unravel my nerves the way it did Leischneudel’s.

  Then again, I’d been living in New York longer than he had. In this city, a person got used to almost anything after a while.

  When the cab came to a halt outside the stage door, Leischneudel said to the driver, “Can you get closer to the door? I mean, really close?”

  But the cabby, whose nerves were also frayed by now, emphatically refused to drive onto the densely populated sidewalk. Especially not in plain view of the cops assigned to crowd control tonight.

  Then I saw Daemon’s car pulling up behind us, and I squeezed Leischneudel’s hand. “Hang in there. We’ll slip inside when they all make a bee line for the vampire.”

  “Which vampire?” the driver muttered.

  “The real one.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said as I paid the fare. “He never eats eat right before a show.”

  We waited until we saw Daemon’s car door swing open, and then we made a dash for it. Leischneudel clung to me like a bad prom date as I shoved my way throu
gh the milling crowd.

  “Daemon! Daemon! Over here!” a tabloid photographer shouted right into my ear.

  His flash went off six inches from my face, momentarily blinding me. I stumbled a little, trying not to fall down as Leischneudel’s feet tangled with mine. Seeing nothing but swimming spots, I reached for whatever support I could find, and I wound up clutching a tall, skinny man.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  While trying to regain my vision and my balance, I squinted up at my rescuer as Leischneudel panted anxiously in my ear. I saw spectacles, a beard, and brown hair, and then I saw the picket sign overhead: UNDEAD —OR JUST UNTRUE?

  “Science guy?” I blurted.

  “Dr. Hal, with the Society for the Scientific Study of Vampires,” said my rescuer.

  “Hi. Um, sorry.” Still blinking and seeing spots, I tried to extract myself from his embrace. “Esther Diamond. With The Vampyre.”

  “I know.”

  He helped me regain an upright posture—no easy task with half of Leischneudel’s weight leaning against me now—and kept a firm grip on my shoulders.

  “Close your eyes completely for a few seconds,” Dr. Hal instructed. “That’ll help.”

  Leischneudel’s grip around my waist tightened while I did as the doctor suggested. “Esther?” he said nervously.

  “Just a minute.” When I opened my eyes again, my vision was indeed better.

  A busty Jane immediately thrust a hanky under my nose. “Can you give this to Daemon for me?”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “Not you.” Her hot glare of hatred made me remember Leischneudel’s warning that obsessed female fans might now believe that punching me was the way to get laid by Daemon. But caught between Dr. Hal and Leischneudel, I couldn’t move.

  To my relief, Dr. Hal pushed the buxom Jane away. Then he said to me, “Miss Diamond, we need your help.”

  “Huh?” I said again.

  Miss Busty Jane shoved Dr. Hal aside and pressed her unwelcome bosom against me as she simpered at Leischneudel, who was clinging to me so tightly that I thought we might need medical assistance to be pried apart once we got inside.

  “Personal bubble,” I said to Busty Jane as she smooshed her breasts into me while leaning closer to Leischneudel. “Personal bubble.”

  Ignoring me, she said sweetly to my companion, “Please, will you give this to Daemon for me? A token from a lady?”

  I saw writing on the handkerchief and realized she’d scrawled her phone number on it. I could also tell that Leischneudel was starting to hyperventilate.

  “We can end this madness, with your help!” cried Dr. Hal, trying to shove Busty Jane again.

  She was made of tough stuff. She pushed back—so hard that Dr. Hal’s picket sign fell on his head as he stumbled sideways.

  “Ow!”

  Leischneudel’s terrified grip tightened reflexively, to the point that I suddenly had trouble breathing.

  This turned out to be a blessing, since Busty Jane’s hanky was directly under my nose when she said to Leischneudel, “Tell Daemon it’s saturated with my feminine essence. I’ve rubbed it directly on my—”

  “Oh, good God!” This time I shoved Jane. With a little more force than Hal had used. She fell backward into a photographer, who cursed loudly when his camera fell out of his hands and skittered across the pavement. He turned on Busty Jane, shouting in venomous anger. She started trying to climb over him, shrieking at Daemon, who had emerged from his car, and urging the actor to accept her handkerchief.

  “Come on,” I said to Leischneudel. “Let’s get inside!”

  I felt him nod against my hair and shuffle his feet in the direction of the stage door.

  “Miss Diamond, wait!” cried Dr. Hal, physically seizing me by the shoulders again.

  Leischneudel tried to pry the scientist’s hands off me, but seemed too overwhelmed to speak or protest.

  “You can help us!” Hal said.

  “I don’t want to help you,” I said. “I want to go inside and do my show.”

  Leischneudel grunted in support of this plan.

  Hal said urgently, “He claims he keeps blood in his dressing room.”

  “Daemon? Yes, I know. Everyone knows. He makes a point of mentioning it in every interview. If you’ll just let me go now . . .” I joined Leischneudel in trying to loosen the doctor’s viselike grip on me.

  “You need to get me a sample!”

  That made me pause. “Pardon?”

  “We need to know if it’s human blood!”

  “Oh, come on, it’s Nocturne wine cooler,” I said dismissively. It was the exact same color as blood, and I knew that Daemon got cases of the beverage for free.

  “You’re undoubtedly right,” Hal said. “Let’s prove it!”

  I shook my head. “Forget it, Hal.”

  “Doctor Hal, if you don’t mind.”

  “I wish you luck, but there’s no way I’m getting involved in this.”

  A roar of excitement arose from the crowd around us, and I assumed that if I looked over my shoulder, I’d see Daemon striking a pose or kissing a fan.

  My bearded captor said, “Don’t you even care about the travesty that this charlatan is perpetrating?”

  “Don’t you realize that proving he’s got Nocturne instead of blood in his minifridge won’t make the slightest bit of difference to his fans? They choose to believe his ridiculous claims. Facts don’t enter into it.”

  “His behavior is a reflection on you!” Hal said.

  “Stop right there,” I said irritably. “I work with him. That’s all.”

  “You help him get away with this! By allowing him to fake exsanguination of your body every night, you assist him in his—”

  “Oh, get a grip! It’s a play, Hal.” I pulled myself out of his grasp with such force that Leischneudel lost his hold on me and staggered back a few steps.

  “All right, if you won’t bring me the so-called blood,” Dr. Hal persisted, “can you at least get me a sample of his semen?”

  “What? How do you think I’m going to get a sample of his—No, never mind. Let’s not go there.” I shook off the mad scientist when he tried to grab me again, then said, “Come, Leischneudel!”

  I turned and stomped toward the stage door, pushing people out of my way. I felt Leischneudel’s hand clutch my jacket, and I dragged him through the crowd to the door—where I said something unkind to the cop on duty about his inability to keep this area clear for us. Then we went inside.

  Once the door was safely shut behind us, I turned to examine my companion. He was as white as a ghost, his pupils were dilated, and his nostrils were flaring with emotion. I decided we did need to find out if there was Nocturne in those bottles in Daemon’s refrigerator. Although I never drank alcohol before a performance, and Leischneudel didn’t drink at all, I thought we both needed a bracer after that too-eventful arrival.

  “Come on.” I took his elbow and guided him down the hall to Daemon’s dressing room.

  When we got to the door and he realized I intended to enter, he balked. “We can’t go in there!”

  I turned the knob. “Sure we can. They’ve unlocked it.” It would get locked again in the wee hours, after we all left.

  As the star of the show, Daemon had the nicest dressing room among The Vampyre’s four cast members. The one I shared with the actress who played Ianthe was drafty and had no comfortable chairs. Leischneudel had his own dressing room by default, since Daemon’s contract had required a private one. In any case, all the dressing rooms were pretty much bare bones, which was typical of New York theaters. Most of the little luxuries in Daemon’s room, such as his minifridge, were his personal possessions, temporarily installed here to ensure his comfort.

  Timidly following me as I entered the star’s lair, Leischneudel said, “Aren’t we intruding?”

  “I’ll tell Daemon it was an emergency. I know you don’t normally indulge, but I think we could both use a quick drink, don�
�t you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Esther . . .”

  “Well, I could, anyhow.” I opened Daemon’s fridge and peered inside, where there were, as I had glimpsed a few times before now, about half a dozen vials full of ruby red liquid. The decorative little bottles looked as if they had been designed to hold cologne.

  I pulled one out of the fridge and said, in a decent imitation of Daemon, “I don’t drink . . . wine cooler.”

  Leischneudel smiled, starting to relax a little.

  “But any port in a storm,” I added in my own voice.

  He came closer. “You really think it’s Nocturne?”

  I gave a derisive snort. “Of course.” I opened the small bottle, sniffed its contents, then took a cautious sip, expecting to taste mediocre red wine diluted by fruit juice and soda.

  Leischneudel drew in a sharp breath. “Esther.”

  Instead, I tasted salt, iron, and something altogether much too biological. I gagged, spat, dropped the little bottle, and covered my mouth with my hand as blood splattered on the nice area carpet at my feet—which was Daemon’s personal property.

  “Oh, my God!” I blurted.

  A sultry voice in the doorway said, “So you’re the one who’s been pilfering my supply.”

  Leischneudel and I whirled to face Daemon as he entered his dressing room, an expression of amused surprise on his face as he looked at me.

  “Ugh! Blegh!” I made unattractive gestures with my tongue as I tried to chase away the disgusting taste and texture I had just sampled. “You do keep blood in these bottles!”

  Daemon blinked. “What were you expecting?”

  “I was hoping for Nocturne.”

  He looked skeptical. “Seriously?”

  “Well, ‘hoping,’ would be an exaggeration,” I admitted. “We got roughed up on the pavement out there. Again. I wanted a drink.”

  Daemon grinned wickedly. “Be my guest.”

  “A drink of alcohol.”

  “An insipid substitute.”

  Leischneudel stood motionless, his nostrils quivering as he stared wide-eyed at the puddle of blood soaking into the carpet at my feet.