Wicked Game

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you kill a vampire’s maker, you kill a part of them. She came to me that night in agony. She said it was like someone had ripped out her heart and stuck it back in upside down.”

  “Did you confess?” I ask him.

  “Eventually. She looked at me like she was the one I’d staked.”

  “But she’d bitten you. She hurt you.”

  “It wasn’t her fault. Brand-new vampires can’t control themselves. She should’ve been better supervised.”

  “No, David,” says a low, female voice that makes my neck hairs stand on end. “I should’ve ripped out your throat.”

  We turn slowly to see a woman in a long black silk dress. She looks maybe a few years older than me, but much taller. Blonder. Everything-er.

  “Elizabeth,” David says in a hoarse voice. “I didn’t—I didn’t know—”

  “I was here?” Her blue eyes flare with a controlled rage. “Didn’t know I was listening to you tell my story to a stranger?” She doesn’t even look at me—not that I want her to.

  He clears his throat and meets her gaze. “It’s my story, not yours.”

  “Antoine is mine.” Her fingers slip around his forearm. “Not yours. Not ever.”

  “I wanted to make Ciara understand.” His voice has steadied. “She deserves the truth. She’s one of us now.”

  At the moment, I’m not sure I want to be one of them. In fact, I’d like to be one of the people walking out the door. Not that anyone is leaving.

  “Pleased to meet you.” I hold out my hand so she’ll have to take hers off David’s arm or be incredibly rude. “Ciara Griffin, marketing intern.”

  She looks at my hand like she thinks I just wiped my nose with it. “This is your party?”

  “It’s the station’s party. What do you think of it?”

  Without turning her head, she glances around at the humans dancing, drinking, and falling over each other. “I worry about the vampires losing control around so much fresh blood.”

  I pull my hand back. “What about you?”

  She twitches a thin, arched eyebrow. “I always keep my thirst in check with blood bank leftovers.”

  David gives a harsh laugh and pries her hand off his arm. “Then why are you so cold right now?”

  “The ratings are bound to go up,” I say, trying to turn the conversation in a more professional direction. “David did interviews with all the major local media tonight.”

  He gives me a grateful glance, then turns back to her. “And on July first,” he says, “we’ll start replaying the DJs’ shows during the day in place of some of those annoying paid programming bits whose contracts are up.”

  I nod vigorously. “Because who wants to wake up at three a.m. to listen to music?” Besides me, of course.

  Elizabeth stays silent for a few more moments, then extends her hand to me. “Good luck,” she says without smiling.

  I try not to grimace at her icy grip. “Join us for a drink?”

  “Not right now.” She tilts down her chin and widens her eyes at David in what looks like a questioning, almost pleading gaze. He juts out his jaw and turns his head away from her, glaring at the floor behind the bar with narrowed eyes. She doesn’t move, and I suddenly feel like I’m eavesdropping on an intimate negotiation.

  Finally David rubs his chin and gives a jerky nod without looking at her. She lets out a deep breath and appears relieved.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me,” she says, “I have to confer.”

  She glides away and approaches a broad-chested man standing against the wall observing the crowd. He’s dressed casual like everyone else, but straightens into an official bearing when he sees Elizabeth. They converse, nodding and watching the partiers with wary eyes.

  I turn to ask David who that guy is, but he’s not even watching Elizabeth, he’s just staring into his whiskey again, lips tight and brows pinched. The overhead bar light casts shadows on his cheeks in the shape of his long, thick lashes.

  I touch his arm, and he looks up quickly. Disappointment crosses his face when he sees it’s only me.

  “Who’s Elizabeth talking to?” I ask him.

  He glances over. “Control goon.”

  “But—wait a minute. She still works for them?”

  “As one of their contractors. She gives the Control information in exchange for money and protection.”

  A vampire rat. Glad she has a sense of honor.

  The Control ogre bends to speak in Elizabeth’s ear, and I notice a bulge in his black leather vest.

  “Is he armed?” I ask David.

  “Not with anything that hurts humans.”

  I watch them monitor Noah, who’s lounging against the wall by the stage, chatting up a group of hotties. “So I take it you quit the Control after the Antoine incident,” I ask David.

  “They kicked me out with a general discharge. But I didn’t care, because I finally had a chance to follow my dream.”

  “Running a radio station?”

  He nods. “And in the process, helping a few vampires avoid the Control. Elizabeth and I gathered half a dozen DJs and musicians and gave them a chance to stay in the present and in their Life Times simultaneously.” He gestures to our surroundings, by which I think he means Sherwood. “We gave them a safe, quiet place to achieve self-actualization.” His whiskey-numbed lips struggle with the seven-syllable word. “A place where they wouldn’t end up like Antoine.”

  I fill our shot glasses and lift mine in a toast. “To redemption quests.”

  We clink and drink. From the speaker, Bob Marley assures us that every little thing’s gonna be all right, but somehow, deep down, I wonder.

  14

  Bad Company

  When I arrive at the office Monday morning, Franklin punches the hold button on his phone. The other line is ringing.

  “Get that, would you?” he says. “It’s probably an advertiser.”

  “Advertisers are calling us? Did I come to the right office?”

  “Put your smart-ass in a sling and answer the phone.”

  The caller is a local Italian restaurant I’ve been able to afford exactly zero times. They want to buy ad spots, and I find sadistic pleasure in telling them we’ll try to squeeze them into our crowded lineup.

  When we’re both off the phone, Franklin holds up the Washington Post and the Baltimore Sun’s Sunday style sections, one in each hand. “Page four and page two, respectively.”

  “Nice work, Mister Hyde.”

  “You know what I realized in the shower yesterday morning?” His phone rings, and he points at me as he reaches for it. “You conned me out of nine bucks.”

  “Consider it overtime pay.” I turn back to my computer and pull up a spreadsheet of WVMP merchandise. We need to order more before the next gig this Friday.

  Regina clomps up the stairs and snatches the papers from Franklin’s desk. He manages to scowl at her even as his voice lilts over the phone.

  She comes to my desk and sits on the edge while she examines the article and the accompanying photo. “I looked good, didn’t I?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Maybe more of the red-on-black T-shirts this time.

  Regina flips through the newspaper’s pages. From the corner of my eye I see her perusing the comics.

  She grunts. “I swear I read the same fucking Mary Worth strip twenty years ago.”

  I look up at her. “Did you want me for something? Ridicule? Harassment?”

  “Oh.” She chews the inside of her cheek as she runs a black-lacquered fingernail over the edge of my desk. “I wanted to tell you, I thought the other night was pretty cool.”

  “And what’s the punch line?”

  “I’ve spent too many years cooped up in that little studio. Having us all play live in one place—it felt like I was doing the clubs again.” She sniffs. “Complete with some preppie wanker bugging me to play ‘Bela Lugosi’s Dead.’”

  “It’s the only Bauhaus song the av
erage person knows.” Which made me an average person before I started listening to Regina’s show.

  “The weird thing was, people liked me. Even though I glared at them.” Her dark eyes—cosmetic free for the first time since I’ve known her—glance away almost shyly. “I’m not used to that.”

  “Really? I’d think you’d be popular in any circle.” I open a box of paper clips and a file folder of merchandise receipts.

  She ignores my sarcasm. “We have something else in common besides shagging Shane.”

  “I told you, I’m not—”

  “People mispronounce my name, too.”

  I squint at her, confused not only at how anyone could mispronounce “Regina,” but also by the vampire’s awkward attempt at nice-making.

  “I grew up in Saskatchewan,” she explains, pronouncing the province with three syllables.

  “You’re Canadian?”

  Regina scowls. “What, I’m not nice enough to be Canadian? What is with that stereotype?” She tempers her voice again. “Anyway, do you know what the capital of Saskatchewan is?”

  I sort and clip receipts as I think, the Jeopardy! theme song playing in my head. “Saskatoon?”

  “Ignorant Yanks.” She heaves a sigh. “No, the capital of Saskatchewan is Regina.” She pronounces it to rhyme with “vagina.” “So living there, everyone thought my name was pronounced like the city, but it’s not.”

  “And that’s why you moved?”

  “I moved because it blew chunks. Imagine North Dakota, but colder.”

  “Yikes. Where did you go?”

  “London, of course. Then New York, then L.A.”

  “I’ve never been to any of those places. Except North Dakota.”

  As I close the folder, its corner knocks over the box of paper clips, spilling them across the floor. I bend over to pick them up, but Regina knocks me out of the way.

  “I’ll get it!” She scrambles for the paper clips, counting them under her breath as she collects them in her palm. I look at Franklin, who spares the vampire an impassive glance.

  When she’s finished, Regina stands and cups the paper clips back into their box, which she sets on my desk with shaky hands. “Fifty-three.”

  I look at the box, then at her.

  Her eyes pinch into a glare. “One crack about Sesame Street and I’ll snap your neck like a twig.”

  My phone rings, saving me. “WVMP, the Lifeblood of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Can I help you?”

  A short pause, then a smooth male voice. “I attended your party Friday night.”

  “Wonderful.” Give us money. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “No, I’m afraid I did not enjoy myself. In fact, I think it is the beginning of the end for our vampire friends.”

  I give a nervous laugh. “Seriously. What did you think?”

  “It was an abomination.”

  An icy fist closes over my spleen, despite my sense that it’s a prank. “But a rockin’ fun abomination, right?”

  I look at the others. Franklin is still on his call. Regina is angrily scanning Rex Morgan, M.D.

  “Anonymity brings safety,” the voice says. “Exposure brings danger.”

  “What kind of danger?”

  Regina looks up at me.

  “If you don’t end this campaign,” the voice replies, “sooner or later someone will get hurt. We’ll make sure it’s sooner.”

  “Hold, please.” I mute the call just as Franklin finishes his conversation. “Someone’s threatening the station,” I tell them.

  “Who?” Franklin asks.

  I sigh. “He neglected to state his name. Shall I ask?”

  “I’ll handle it.” Franklin picks up the phone and taps the line. “Franklin Morris, manager of sales.”

  “Did the guy sound old?” Regina whispers to me.

  “No, his voice was young.”

  “Spencer’s voice is young, and he’s in his seventies.”

  “Oh, you mean vampire old.” I shake my head. “My bet’s on Skywave. Jolene probably put him up to it.”

  Regina frowns. We turn to watch Franklin jot notes on a legal pad. He nods and mmm-hmms again and again. Finally he gets a chance to speak.

  “Well, I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I’m afraid you’ve reached the one person here who absolutely, positively doesn’t give a shit. Ciao!” He hangs up and turns to me. “We’ve got problems.”

  David reads Franklin’s notes from the phone conversation, then sets the page on his desk.

  “That’s quite a list,” he says.

  Franklin crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “You think they’ll do one of those things to each vampire, or all of them to just one vampire?”

  “Bugger off.” Regina paces the worn gray rug in front of David’s desk.

  Franklin sighs. “Alas, not during business hours.”

  “Who do you think it is?” I ask David, stepping quickly through Regina’s path before she treads on me.

  “Gotta be Gideon,” she says. “Sounds like his isolationist bullshit.”

  David shakes his head. “Gideon and his people just want to be left alone.”

  I raise my hand. “Uh, who’s Gideon?”

  “Old fart vampire living out in the boonies.” Regina glares at me. “He thinks your kind shouldn’t interact with us except as food.” She points to the list on David’s desk. “Only a vampire would know all the ways to kill us. Them or the Control, and Elizabeth’s supposed to protect us from those brownshirts.”

  “Hey, I was one of them once,” David says. “We wore black shirts.” He looks at me. “I agree with Ciara—it’s probably Skywave. This list includes things that don’t kill vampires. Like silver, and running water. Those are myths.”

  “So what do we do?” I ask. “Go to the police?”

  “No!” they all say in unison.

  “We can’t have the cops sniffing around the station,” David says. “What if they look downstairs and find a fridge full of blood?”

  I grimace at the thought. “We’re not dropping the campaign, are we?”

  “Hell, no,” Franklin says, together with Regina’s “Fuck that.” They share a frown, clearly unaccustomed to agreeing with each other.

  David plants his palms on the desk. “No matter who it is, we won’t cave. I’ll talk to Elizabeth. She can ask the Control to deploy a security detail to the station.”

  “You think they’ll do it?” I ask him.

  “Over one phone call? Probably not.” He folds the list in half and tucks it into his top desk drawer. “So everyone be careful.”

  June 29

  Early polling results knock us on our asses; based on call volume and surveys, our listenership has increased by tenfold less than a week after the party at the Smoking Pig. David takes me and Franklin out for happy hour, and for an hour even Franklin exhibits something close to happiness. As I warned Bernita the Candle Lady, our ad rates have tripled.

  I snag some more gigs for the older vamps at a few clubs in Baltimore. The mystique surrounding the reclusive Vampire Shane is beginning to build, just as I’d hoped. I can relate to the public on that one, because I haven’t seen him since the night of the Pig party.

  So far, no more threats. Maybe that call was just a practical joke, or Jolene’s lame attempt at intimidation. But I remember the cold feeling of being watched the night of my interview, and I never walk alone after dark.

  15

  Just Like Heaven

  The phone wakes me too early on Fourth of July morning. Grumbling, I flop over in bed to answer it.

  “What are you doing tonight?” Shane says, turning my crankiness into confusion.

  I sink back onto the pillow, wanting to tell him about my elaborate plans for the evening with all my cool friends, except I don’t have any. Plans, that is.

  “Lori’s still up in Gettysburg for the battle anniversary, so I’m going to bed early. It’s my first day off since I started this job.”

  “You can sleep d
uring the day. I do it all the time.”

  The thought of him in bed spreads a warmth through the bottom of my belly. “Why are you asking?”

  “Let me make everything up to you.”

  “Huh? What everything? I started our fight.”

  “And I called you a liar. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry you called me a liar, or sorry you think I am one?”

  He sighs. “You’re not making this easy, are you?”

  I stretch and sit up, knowing I’ll never get back to sleep after this call. “What did you have in mind for tonight?”

  “Fireworks. Food.”

  I wait for him to add anything else that begins with F. “I can get those in Sherwood.”

  “You can’t get in Sherwood what I’m going to show you tonight. Trust me.”

  “Trust you?” I let out a little laugh. “That’s a work in progress.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Just after dark, Shane’s knock comes from the bottom of my stairs. Nice that he didn’t barge in this time.

  I start to pull open the door to the sidewalk when he catches it, trapping me inside.

  He holds out his other hand. “Give me your car keys.”

  “Why?”

  “I have stuff to load in the trunk. Surprise stuff. It’s good to see you, by the way.” He keeps his firm grip on the door, which I can’t open any farther.

  I hand him the keys. “If we need my car, how did you get here?”

  “Jim dropped me off on the way to his gig. Stay there.” He backs away, holding up a warning finger.

  A few minutes later, we’re driving out of town, making small talk. Every time Shane speaks, my foot presses the accelerator.

  A pause in the polite bullshit gives me a chance to set things straight. “I’m sorry I freaked the night of the party, after we—I mean, before we—you know.”

  “I can’t blame you, considering you saw me at my worst the last time we hooked up.” He shifts his legs, as if the fact that they don’t quite fit under my dashboard has just now made him uncomfortable. “If you’re afraid of me, why are you here now?”