Dead, Undead, or Somewhere in Between

by J. A. Saare

  “Oh man.” Images of wanna-be vampires came to mind and an electric tremor shot down my vertebrae. I didn’t want to be involved with a crowd like that. I gave Goose my most pitiful look. “Do we have to?”

  He laughed, the unexpected sound reverberating inside his apartment. “Why can’t you be like this more often? It’s refreshing and rather adorable.”

  “Fuck that shit,” I grumbled and felt my face flush red as I resumed my normal disposition. Adorable was a word with which I never wanted to be associated. No more chocolate. It coerced me into being happy and joyful.

  “It was fun while it lasted.” He frowned disapprovingly and looked at the ceiling, as if God needed to intervene on my behalf. “And yes, we do have to. Disco got the location of the next blood tasting. It’s Friday night—”

  “Hold it.” I sat up, placing the vial on the desk along with my mug. “I’ve got work.”

  “Can’t you take the night off?”

  He seemed dumbfounded, and I wasn’t sure why. Work means you have a schedule, and when it’s your day to work, you come in. It seemed like a basic concept to me.

  “Sure, I could, but it’s a busy night. I can’t afford to lose my job over this.” I liked my job and the people I worked with. No way was I letting that slip. “That is one condition I’m not budging on.”

  “Please, take the night off. Getting invited to these social functions is no easy feat, and I’m not sure the opportunity will come again in the foreseeable future. I won’t ask again, Scout’s Honor.” He lifted his fingers and drew a cross over his heart.

  “Okay,” I agreed reluctantly, and it hurt to do it. I’d never requested off work at the last minute before. I hoped Deena didn’t chew me up and spit me out. “But this is it, no more ditching.”

  “That sounds fair.” He sat up and opened a drawer on the desk. The chair squeaked in protest as he reached into the back, pilfered around, and pulled out a card. He tossed it across the desk, and I caught it with my hands. “That’s for your expenses. You’ll need to buy something for the occasion. Pamper yourself with a manicure and pedicure. Enjoy yourself.”

  “What about you?” I tried to picture him in head to toe black, with lipstick and eyeliner.

  “What about me?” He frowned, peering down.

  “Do you even own a black article of clothing? And who is going to apply your makeup?”

  He laughed so hard, I thought his neurological pathways had been fried.

  “What?”

  He grinned, laughing again, until he noticed my expression. “This isn’t that kind of party, Rhiannon. That card is to purchase a dress—a nice dress. The people who attend these functions are not young adults with a lingering case of depression. Purchasing vampire blood is an expensive habit, one that requires thousands of dollars each time.”

  I wanted to gag. I hadn’t worn a dress since my prom. “Can’t I wear what I did to the Razor?”

  “No.” He was completely serious now. “These people will notice anything out of the ordinary. You’ll need to get a dress, get your hair done—all of it. That’s why I insisted you come along and request the night off. These gatherings are exclusive and undisclosed.”

  My stomach knotted at the gravity of what I was entering into. I stood up, bracing my hands on his desk. “What goes down at these little social functions? I’m not down with guzzling someone else’s blood, dead or alive. If that’s part of the arrangement, I’m telling you right now, it ain’t happening. No fucking way.”

  “The expectation for you to sample the product will be there, but you can decline. You can say you’ve recently come down from your last taste and need a breather. It’s similar to a wine tasting. People taste before buying, same difference.” I could tell he was choosing his words carefully.

  They would expect me to drink vampire blood, no matter what he said to the contrary. I knew what they’d expect, because it is what they’d want themselves. My stomach churned, and I could taste the chocolate from earlier. I drew in a huge breath through my nose and released it as I sat back down. I felt icky and nauseous.

  “I need to know what to expect, in case I’m forced to taste it.” I willed myself not to flinch as I met his gaze.

  “I’ve never been to one myself. I’ve only heard about them from colleagues. But I have tasted blood before.” He took an uneven breath, and looked away. “It’s instant. The minute you swallow, your eyes, ears, nose, everything, goes into overdrive. It’s disorienting at first, then unbelievably empowering. I can easily see why people become addicted to the rush. Once it’s gone, you realize just how weak, blind, and deaf you truly are.”

  The temptation to tell him to forget it and walk out the door reared its head, but I suppressed it. I despised fear, especially my own, and that’s exactly what I was experiencing. I was frightened of stepping outside of my comfort zone, of letting go of the little security blanket I’d built so solidly around myself.

  And I didn’t want to live that way anymore.

  “I want something from you in exchange for everything I’m doing,” I told him. “When this is finished, I want to know about my necromancy. I want you to teach me how it works.”

  “Nothing would please me more. You have my word,” he promised. Pushing free of the chair, he walked to the bookshelf. He removed a book and placed it into my hands. “As a show of trust, you can take this to read.”

  The leather binding was thicker than any book I’d held, the pages coarse and uneven. I flipped to the first page and studied the freehand script. I scanned through, intrigued by words like summoning, conjuring, channeling and sacrifice, mixed with diagrams and descriptions, lists of ingredients and moon cycles.

  “What is this?” I stopped at the page with a full moon and a corpse digging its way out of the ground. My lips came together, forming a thin line as I read the descriptions and necessary items.

  “That is the first of my personal journals. I have it all written down, everything I’ve learned.” He cleared his throat and returned to his recliner.

  “Please tell me you don’t wake zombies on a regular basis.”

  “No,” he said quietly. “It’s difficult to do here in the states, and not so easy to explain. It’s also very dangerous. Zombies don’t feel pain, and they won’t return to the grave until you release them.”

  “Then what exactly do you do.” I closed the book and leaned forward to touch the nameplate. “Mr. Nathan McDaniel, P.I.?”

  “I help people. People who are mourning. People with missing loved ones. People who need answers they can’t have because the person with the information has passed on. When they’ve explored every possible venue that’s considered normal, and all that’s left is to wait or give up, they turn to me. I do my best to ensure this is the last stop they have to make.” His eyes focused on mine as his tone became solemn. “Placing faith in a medium one doesn’t understand is difficult enough, but if people were willing to embrace the truth of what we are capable, could you imagine how beneficial our powers would be?”

  I broke eye contact, shifting my focus around the desk. “You didn’t add vampires to that list. How did you end up working for them?”

  He answered quietly, “Eleven years ago, a girl went missing on her way home from Brooklyn College. Her parents filed a missing person report, but it was Disco who retained my services. It didn’t take long, just a few days of tracing her normal route. Her ghost was clear, and a simple touch told me all I needed to know. They found her body in a trunk in the Bronx a week or so later. I’ve been the liaison for his people since then.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Just a girl that was terribly unlucky. She was snatched somewhere between the campus and her house by several not so nice guys on a cocaine binge. She didn’t die quickly; they took their time. When it was over, they discarded her like a rag doll, wrapped in cellophane and garbage bags in the trunk of an abandoned vehicle. It didn’t take long for Disco’s crew to track them, and when they did, th
ere wasn’t anyone left for the police to haul into jail.”

  “Why did Disco and his people get involved?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say Rhiannon,” Goose answered after a lengthy hesitation. “Maybe one day you can ask Disco.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t pry, aware that I’d trespassed onto some private matter best left alone.

  He changed the subject by formulating our plan. He would arrive at nine o’clock sharp at my place, bringing us fashionably late to the shindig in the hope that tardiness would excuse us from the early tasting, as well as keeping us below the radar.

  Our plan was simple—mingle, observe, and listen. Anyone who raised a red flag would be marked as a suspect of interest. And we only had one rule that governed the entire stakeout.

  If somehow we were caught—get the hell out of there.

  Chapter Eight

  Goose said I looked amazing, and I would have accepted his compliment with tact and grace if I didn’t feel like a bad Tammy Faye impersonator at a religious rally.

  The woman he suggested for my makeover had put a mountain of cosmetics on my face—foundation, powder, concealer, blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara. The only part of me I did like was my hair, which I’d had blown out straight. The long pieces fell to my waist like a silk curtain, a few natural strands of red shimmering in the light thanks to her impeccable dye job.

  My outfit came courtesy of Macy’s, and it was something I could live with—a black halter jumpsuit. I never knew such an amazing and smart piece of clothing existed. The back was open to the waist, which was foreign to me, but the legs were long and billowy and hid the new boots I’d purchased to match. Since I lived in shit kickers and Nike’s, I hoped I didn’t need to haul ass or jump obstacles. If so, I was bound to eat turf.

  Goose looked outstanding. His suit was deep navy, almost black, and matched his coloring wonderfully. He wore a light blue shirt with a luxurious navy tie that matched the pants and jacket. His hair was neatly slicked back, and he smelled so good that I pretended to adjust his tie just to take another whiff.

  Our driver stopped in front of our destination on Park Avenue, pulling to the empty curb, and my nervousness returned. I was out of my league and completely out of my zone. Whereas I could conform to an emo crowd easily enough, pretending to matriculate from upper crust ass-hats was too surreal. Goose insisted my stellar attitude and superb language skills had to be put on hold while we were inside the building, which meant I had to keep my big fat cow shut.

  It was the equivalent of asking a little girl not to scream the first time she was personally introduced to Hannah Montana.

  We walked into the building and signed under pseudo names. Hello, Mr. Receptionist. We’re Mr. And Mrs. Hamlin, visiting the Westhouses on the 74th floor, if you please.

  Goose kept his arm loosely at my waist, appearing much taller as he focused on his posture. He totally looked the part. As the door to the elevator slid closed, we both relaxed.

  “Remember to watch your language, Janet.”

  I turned toward him, brushing off his lapels and giving him the once over.

  “Why ever would you say such a thing, Brad?” I smiled innocently and started to snicker. I loved our names, straight out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. At any moment, I was going to ask Goose to do the “Time Warp”.

  “Quiet,” he shushed me as he fought his own laughter, lips contorting with the effort, and pulled me to his side.

  I stood patiently, nervous but somehow excited too. I felt like a spy, assuming different identities and working under cover. The Mission Impossible theme echoed through my mind as the lights shifted on the panel. My heart started hammering, and my skin began to tingle. The doors opened, and Goose’s arm tightened around my waist, leading us out.

  Directly ahead was a man in a black suit. Goose pulled me forward and approached the door confidentially. “Brad and Janet Hamlin, we were invited by Marcus Delmar.”

  He didn’t offer any further explanation and he didn’t look away.

  Jesus.

  Goose was a bona fide professional.

  I started to relax. Mr. Ethan McDaniel P.I. had this shit, no problem. The man in black nodded and moved away from the door to grant us access. Goose reached out and gripped the handle. Opening the door, he motioned me inside. I could hear the voices, high-pitched drones with pronounced vowels and leering pronunciation.

  I bit my lip, vowing I would not speak unless spoken to. I had two huge strikes against me. I had no formal education—other than the school of bar—and I came from the south. My southern accent wasn’t as severe as some, but it was evident, especially in a room full of millionaire northerners.

  Goose guided us across the room, toward a huge walk-in closet. He helped me out of my jacket and gently pulled my hair around my shoulders. Sensing my confusion, he led me inside and hung up the garment, showing me where it would be in case we made a speedy departure. I smiled nervously and his eyes tightened. He patted my chin with his knuckles, and I nodded in understanding.

  I would keep my chin up. To hell with the snobby bastards.

  He held out his arm and I took it without hesitation. This was a partnership now. I’d have to get used to trusting someone else besides myself.

  We exited the closet and walked into a huge room full of people. I suddenly understood the need for snazzy clothes. Everyone was dressed in form-fitting dresses, suits, and designer duds specifically tailored for them. The crowd was older, too. I was one of the youngest in the room, and probably considered eye candy along with the few other males and females with older dates.

  There were tables filled with drinks, and hors d’oeuvres were lined up on one side of the room. The wall opposite was open to allow a breathtaking view of Central Park, street-lit walkways as perfect as a watercolor painting.

  “So far, nada,” I leaned over to whisper in Goose’s ear, smiling pleasantly as a server with a tray offered us a glass of wine. I put the glass to my lips and took a small sip. It tasted slightly off, too sweet somehow, and I puckered my lips.

  Goose’s face tightened, and his eyes narrowed.

  As if to say I told you so.

  I would have spit the fluid back up if I could. How stupid could I be? The room changed as the air became crisper, the voices became clearer, and my vision…I saw every minute detail, ranging from the brownish seeds on the strawberries nestled on trays across the room, to the lint on Goose’s shirt as he turned to me.

  “Oh God,” I whispered, wanting to be sick but knowing I had to keep a straight face. I swallowed, aware of my tongue and the sweet taste that lingered on the surface.

  Goose moved in against me, a fake smile plastered to his face. He shifted close and leaned down. The feel of his breath against my cheek made me shudder as my legs swayed.

  “It will pass in another five minutes or so. You didn’t drink much.”

  “Okay.” Even my voice sounded different, like a purr in my ears.

  His hand grasped mine, and I could feel the heat as it radiated from his body in warm waves. He slipped my fingers under his arm, wrapping them around, and walked me to the window, giving me something to focus on until the feeling passed. I stared down at the trees and lamps in the distance, and slowly, things dulled. My perfect vision faded until everything was blurry, sounds were distant and slurred, and smells were no longer evident.

  “All better?” He didn’t turn from the glass, pretending to look outside at the fantastic view.

  “Mmm hmm.” I vocalized, afraid to speak and hear myself purring.

  “Pardon me,” a deep voice interrupted from behind, and we both turned to greet the stranger. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.

  He was a big guy who devoted serious time to the gym, with long hair that fell down his shoulders in soft brown waves, and caramel brown eyes that went beautifully with his tanned skin and handsome face. His suit was formal, but he didn’t wear a tie, the collar loose and comfortable at his neck.
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  “I don’t believe we have.” Goose-stepped up to the plate, more seasoned than a award-winning actor from Julliard. He extended his right hand and introduced himself, “Brad Hamlin.”

  “Jude Mason.” He shook Goose’s hand forcefully and turned his attention to me.

  Goose didn’t seem to appreciate the interest generated in my direction when he placed his arm gently around my waist and said, “Allow me to introduce my wife, Janet.”

  “The good ones are always taken.” Jude grinned, full lips parting to reveal perfect white teeth.

  He reached for my hand and brought it to his mouth. It took all of my control to keep from complaining that I didn’t know where those lips had been or what they’d been doing. He brushed them gently across the tender part of skin directly below my knuckle and let go.

  “Who told you about our private party this evening?” The question was cordial, but the undertones were blatant. He didn’t recognize us, and that pulled a red flag.

  “Marcus Delmar,” Goose answered.

  Marcus was the supplier for these little gatherings, and when Disco threatened to shut down his little operation, he’d gladly given up the goods on tonight’s extravaganza.

  His was one name the people here wouldn’t question.

  “I see.” The suspicion evaporated from Jude’s face. “Then allow me to introduce you to a few of the other guests.”

  I stuck to Goose like a bad rash, keeping my body in close contact. I could handle a drunken asshole with over one-hundred pounds on me, but I was mortified of social interaction with these people.

  Jude led us to a large group standing along the far wall, and I knew I was staring at a living billboard epitomizing wealth and sophistication. They reeked of superiority and affluence. Each of the men stood leisurely, accompanied by hard-bodied dates.

  “Timothy.” Jude breezed into their circle, sweeping around to face us. “We have new faces tonight. Allow me to introduce Brad and Janet Hamlin.”