We?
A man in a tux grabs me by the collars and giggles maniacally in my face. “Guten abend, mein kleiner Schnurrbart! May I take your coat?”
Staring hard at him, I realize it’s Casey and start laughing. “You crazy bastard! This place is utterly amazing! Whose is it?”
“One of zese beyutiful people,” he says, his accent somewhere between German, Russian, and Rastafarian. He sweeps his arms across the room. “Look at zem! All such beyutiful people! Even ze orchestra es beyutiful.”
“Casey, you’ve been drinking.”
“No, YOU’VE been drinking!”
“No, I haven’t!”
“Why the hell NOT?!”
“Good question. Better go remedy that.”
“You better believe it.” And with a shriek, he disappears into the crowd.
I filter through the mass of people, in awe of pretty much everything. The clothes, the makeup, the house, fill me with utter amazement. It’s a loft apartment, obviously, but it’s been divided up into different rooms using curtains hung from the ceiling. Normally a house like this would just piss me off something terrible—Manhattan decadence at its worst—but considering how the party’s set up and the type of people in attendance, the whole place just seems magical and hilarious. One room is the bar, where boys in tuxes and suits are yelling loudly while drinking beer, another a ballroom full of kids dancing to music that sounds somewhere between hardcore punk and big-band swing. There are some others, too, but the bar is really all I care about right now. And lo and behold, standing behind the bar is Tollevin the Tower, shooting me the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen. I smile back at him, resting myself on the bar and taking my handkerchief from my breast pocket (I figured since I get sweaty when I’m nervous, it was the ideal accessory) to wipe my brow.
“What’ll it be, Locke?” he yells above the din.
“What’s good?” I ask, glancing at the rainbow of bottles behind him. If there’s a time to learn about liquor, it’s now.
Tollevin grabs a bottle reading GLENLIVET and pours some into a tumbler glass for me. “You seem like a Scotch kind of guy. Try this.”
I take a sip and feel the fluid in my mouth. It’s tough, I suppose. Reminds me of the whiskey Casey gave me, only with an attitude problem. I swallow it and it burns all the way down. I open my mouth and could swear I’m breathing fire. The warmth burns down in my stomach into ball of slow heat that seems to resonate throughout my insides.
I cough. “Christ, that’s harsh.”
Tollevin laughs slightly. He pushes the Glenlivet to the side of the bar and pours me a shot of what looks like melted licorice from a green bottle. He hands it to me and smiles. “Jägermeister. The Devil’s Cough Syrup.”
“Am I about to die?”
“A little. It’s for the best.”
This one isn’t tough. It’s just a slap in the face, sugary-sweet syrup with an acidic aftertaste. Once it’s all down, I let out a gag that makes Tollevin crack up.
“That was awful! People actually drink that?”
Tollevin laughs a little more. Finally he pours me a glass of black fluid with a rising white head and pushes it slowly toward me.
“This is Guinness, right?”
“Right. Think coffee mixed with beer. And bacon. I’m not giving you any more than that; when that Scotch and Jäger kick in, you’ll be feeling pretty damn good.”
I can’t help but smile. “That’s sweet of you. Taking care of me and all.”
He shrugs modestly. “Renée would kill me if I got you drunk before you got your card.” Again with the card. Before I can ask what all this nonsense is about, I hear a familiar voice behind me squeal, “Dahling!” Speak of the she-devil.
I turn around and swell with pride, lust, and adoration. Renée is dressed in a white flapper’s dress with intense makeup, black fishnets, heels, and one of those sequiny yarmulke-type things on her head with little strings of sparkles trailing down. While the dress is tight enough to fit a waifish flapper, Renée is built with curves, making her utterly seductive. Her nails are bright green. It hits me for a second that I’ve never seen her in white up until now.
I throw my arms up in a greeting gesture, expecting a hug. Instead, she leaps into the air, making me catch and hold her. She stares into my eyes, and her smile and smell tell me that I’m exactly where I should be. The next thing I know, her lips are firmly attached to mine, her tongue snaking swiftly through my mouth, which I mimic in turn. The extraordinary din around us dies in my ears, and I am living for this kiss and only this kiss.
She leans her head back and smacks her ruby red lips, now slightly smudged at the sides. “Mmm,” she whispers, “you taste Irish.”
I laugh. Already I’m beginning to feel that light numbness slip through me. The booze makes me feel warm and comfortable, but still edgy—it’s similar to the moments of controlled, confident venom I’ve had lately. “I have a taste for Guinness, apparently. Tollevin’s been finding out what suits me best.”
Renée leaps down from my arms and eyes Tollevin. “Tower, what have you been putting in my boy?” Before he can answer, she’s pulling me through the crowd. “I want you to meet people. There are so many here tonight.”
“Yes, there are lots of people here tonight…but honestly, you have people to see and shit, don’t sidetrack your evening of fun just ’cause of me….”
She stops, kisses me, and gives me a good, hard look. “You are my evening of fun.”
The next hour or so is a blur of names, faces, and hands. Renée yanks me through every room, introducing me to about fifty million indie rockers and crust punks. I get three “So this is Locke”s, seven “nice to finally meets you”s, and even about six “Renée’s told me a lot about you”s. Anyone else dragging me around a party and I’d feel kind of ill at ease. Not with Renée, though. Every time she presents me, there’s this laser-beam look in her eyes, as though, more than anything, she wants them to adore me as much as she does. And it works—the strange, booze-fueled, easygoing venom stays with me all night, and somehow I’m actually charming. At one point I make a comment about seeing Renée in white for the first time, and a whole circle of kids bursts into laughter, including Renée, who pulls me closer to her and snuggles her head into my neck. Locke Vinetti, life of the party—who knew?
We take a break from the schmoozing and sit at a table in the bar, Renée ordering a gin and tonic, and me downing a glass of ice water. All that walking around and trying to appear cool can work up a thirst. As we imbibe, Renée beams at me. “You okay? I hope I haven’t been making too much of a spectacle of you….”
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “I’m really quite down with it. It’s incredibly sweet, hearing these people mention what good things you’ve been saying about me.”
“Are there any bad things to say about you, darling?”
“Well, I mean…you know, I’m, the venom is kind of…” I trail off.
“Hey.” She puts her green-tipped index finger to my mouth and gets a very serious look on her face. Not angry or upset, just serious. “Not tonight. Okay?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that. I’m just telling you.” Her expression softens. “Tonight you’re Locke Vinetti. Nothing else.”
The venom responds to the order strangely. Usually there’s a raised fist, a feeling in my gut as though the world is ending and I’m on the pale horse. But tonight it changes its tune.
It shrugs, shifts, and goes to sleep.
We’ll discuss this later.
Thank you.
Oh, I wouldn’t go thanking me just yet.
I smile broadly. “Okay,” I say softly, reaching out and squeezing her hand. “Not tonight.”
Her eyes go shiny, and we kiss.
“My dark boy,” she sighs. “My hero in black.”
“I’m the Vampire James Dean, baby,” I whisper back. “It’s all in the Marlboros.”
“Dean smoked Chesterfields.”
I love this woman.
A few minutes later, a boy wearing only tux pants and suspenders walks into the room and announces loudly that the presentation is being made in the main room. Renée lifts me onto my feet, and we walk side by side, arm in arm, into a massive ballroom with a stage occupying most of one wall. Casey’s standing onstage behind a microphone stand, next to a huge, veiled picture, smiling like a schoolboy. He lights a cigarette and takes a long, full drag.
As he leans forward and speaks into the mic, the room quiets.
“Good evening, children of the night,” he says, holding his arms out in greeting. “Has anyone seen the worst-dressed gay kid in the city around here?”
“THERE HE IS!” responds the crowd as one, pointing.
Casey paws his tux and sighs. “Oh, Christ, good. I was worried there for a second.” Requisite chortling ensues. “As you all know,” he continues, “tonight is a celebration of the Weimar, the scene to end all scenes, a time of freedom, beauty, and love.”
The crowd roars back. Casey mock-stumbles at the pitch of the noise, and then, laughing, always laughing, continues.
“The Weimar was many things. A performance movement, a historical era, and an escape for so many whose ways weren’t tolerated by the powers that be. We, though, celebrate the Weimar as a state of mind, an understanding of the need for personal freedom and release. Weimar, for us, is the experience of fun without limits, joy without rules, and life without those foolish boundaries set by little men with stupid ideas. After all,” he says, taking on a queeny lisp and standing in a pose that smacks of Prince, “I think we all have our little differentheth, don’t we, darlingth?”
Again, the room’s filled with mirthful noise. I giggle through the childish lump in my throat. Casey. We would go to war for him now, all of us. Our buddy, the gay Henry V.
“However, those little men have gained great power in this world,” he continues. “They feed on good things, pervert them, buy them up, and sell them back to the morons out there who didn’t think of them in the first place.” The black rings in Casey’s voice. The air crackles with anger. Something’s up. “And in the case of the Weimar, one little, monotesticular parasite decided to poison our expression of love, making the very word ‘Weimar’ synonymous with his campaign of hatred and cruelty.” Ooooh. “And so, frauleins and leiberherrs, I present to you: our guest of honor!”
Casey yanks back the sheet over the stand to reveal a massive portrait of Adolf Hitler, throwing the heil.
My hand tightens around Renée’s. Nazis. Nazi punk rockers. I’ve somehow fallen in with a crew of Nazis obsessed with tarot cards, and tonight they’re going to induct me into their white brotherhood. Tollevin’s just a red herring. It all makes sense. I need to leave, to get—
Casey takes one last drag and flicks his cigarette.
There’s a whiff of lighter fluid, and then the picture goes up in a ball of flames to the tune of everyone in the room cheering, screaming, celebrating the death of ignorance and rigidity and all things old and evil. After a few seconds, Casey produces a bucket of water, puts out the fire, knocks the picture over, and stomps the ashes until Hitler is nothing more than a slimy black stain on the stage. Once finished, he wipes his brow and steps back up to the microphone.
“Glad we could clear that up. Now, on to other business,” he says, suddenly appearing solemn. “Shall we talk tarot?”
Approval booms around us.
“I thought so. As you know, the tarot and its meanings have become an important part of what we stand for. And as you know, we occasionally bring folks we’ve taken a liking to into the Major Arcana.”
Oh my God. My card. I get it.
“We have the Tower manning the bar, a Fool playing a guitar recital uptown, a Hierophant in a beautiful white dress, an Emperor running the show, and a Hermit as our wonderful host. If you ask around, I’m sure the Devil will teach you some fun drinking games, and the Hanged Man will sell you some, ahem, party favors later. But tonight we initiate a new individual into the Major Arcana, a newcomer to our little group, who I, personally, am rather enamored of.”
Renée’s hand tightens on mine.
“If Renée, Randall, or myself have not yet introduced you to this wonderful boy, we will eventually. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, we present to you: Locke Vinetti, the Strength.”
The crowd reaches a frenzy. Applause and exaltation fill the ballroom, and a hundred hands rise into the air, throwing fists in celebration to my acceptance. I’m totally dumbstruck by the reactions. A feeling rushes through me unlike any other, and I almost start to choke up. There is no gnawing anxiousness, no seething displeasure—just joy.
Renée kisses my cheek softly, and then gives me a sharp slap on the ass. “Get up there, you silly boy.”
I make my way slowly to the stage, hands patting my back and shoving me forward, almost carrying me to the stage. When I finally reach the edge, Casey pulls me up. And when at last I stare out into the crowd, I see an ocean of pierced faces and colored hair gathered together to honor me, only me, Locke. Pushed into my hand is a tarot card, a depiction of a woman in a white gown, wrenching open the jaw of a fierce lion, her face twisted in a spasm of determination. Casey, at my ear, says, “Welcome to the tarot, ya big hottie.”
The venom is gone tonight, but for the first time that I can remember, I am not alone.
A few hours and a couple more drinks later, I’m making out with Renée in the hallway of her building.
The rest of the party was a whirlwind of celebration. We tore the ballroom to pieces once the music started again, a punk-rock symphony of biblical proportions. At some point they played the Cabaret soundtrack, which absolutely destroyed any sanity left in the crowd. People appeared to be having sex up against a few of the columns while a couple of Goths dueled with jagged bottlenecks. Pandemonium, pure and unfiltered. Then Renée introduced me to the wonders of tequila body shots; the salt, lemon, skin, and tongue making the liquor somewhat palatable. Randall even called her cell just to send his blessings to me. “Welcome to our fucked-up world, Stockenbarrel!” he shouted. “My work is done!”
And so now I have Renée pressed hard up against the wall across from the door to her apartment, with one of her hands cradling the back of my head and the other one kneading one of my butt cheeks. We’ve gone from kissing to making out to no-holds-barred dry-humping in less than an hour. I’m not drunk, just tipsy enough to forget everything but this girl. Our tongues are dueling in each other’s mouths. Sweat and makeup’s just being ground into my face, and I couldn’t care less. I’ve never been so consumed with lust in my entire life. All I want, all I need, is her touch and her taste.
Abruptly she ducks out from between me and the wall and giggles as she unlocks and opens her apartment door. I try to recover my senses and mumble, “Well, um, guess I should get out of here—”
“Oh no, you shouldn’t,” she says, twirling on one of her heels.
“What…I mean, it’s late, and I don’t want your aunt—”
She reaches behind herself, and I hear the distinct sound of a zipper.
“Aunt Marie is gone for the night,” she says, biting her lip. “Andrew is over at a friend’s house. The apartment is mine.”
The dress hits the ground with a soft whoosh. She stands there, clad only in a white satin corset covered in buckles, a garter belt, her stockings and her heels.
“And I’m yours.”
A million reasons why I shouldn’t do this swim through my head. My mom’s expecting me. We haven’t been dating for long enough. I’m drunk, or drunk enough to know I’m a little drunk, which means that I’m perhaps too drunk, and she’s a little drunk too, and there’s nothing wrong with just a quiet evening, which this evening certainly hasn’t been so far, but—but—
“Renée, maybe we should think—”
“I’ll tell you what,” she says to cut me off, “I’m going to go to my room and light some candles and some ince
nse. You stand out here and think. Think all you want for as long as you want. I’ll wait in my room. And when you’ve thought good and hard about everything, you come inside and I’ll make love to you real slow.” She blows me a kiss and walks slowly into the blackness of her apartment, giving me a shot of her rounded ass bobbing slowly after her before darkness engulfs her.
I think for about twelve seconds, then make sure to lock the door behind me.
HOW?”I said, snatching him by the collar and shoving my face into his. “What happens to Renée?”
“My God, your eyes…”
“HOW?!”
“She—she becomes the second Blacklight,” he stuttered, scared. “When it escaped you, the venom looked for the nearest possible person who your darkness rubbed off on, who you left a—an impression on, and it was her.” His face twists in both terror and grief. “She’s the one who does the most damage, who destroys half of the city. With a fresh host, it was unstoppable. God, if you could’ve only seen her, she was magnificent, this mass of black lightning and burning dark light, like some sort of fallen angel from Hell….” His eyes glazed over, and I could almost hear him imagining Renée, a spirit in black wiping out half of New York. “I remember how she laughed when she killed most of the people in Times Square, it was this huge pile of bodies—”
“And you?” I managed. “How’d you become this…thing?”
“Locke.”
“Tell me.”
His eyes squeezed hard shut. “I killed her,” he whispered, “and the venom moved on to me.”
That was all I needed to hear.
“How do we stop it?” I blurted out. My costume rippled, crackled, swirled with my agitation. “We need to stop it. I need to know how the venom can be stopped. There can’t be another Blacklight, do you hear me?”
“I know, I came back here to—”
“SPEAK UP, DAMMIT!”
“TO MEET YOU!” he screamed. “I just wanted to meet you! To see you face-to-face, to tell you what was going to happen, and maybe you could stop it…. They—they wanted me to—to try and make you, convince you to kill yourself, you know, or try and kill you, so the world wouldn’t—”
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