“Actually,” my mother plucked the AB negative out of my hand and set it back down, “I arranged for you and Remy to head over to the club for drinks.” She smiled as if she’d just sucked the blood out of the entire staff of Chippendales. “Just the two of you.”
“I’m up for it.” Remy winked at me and my stomach hollowed out. “Lil?”
I swallowed. No way was I going anywhere with Remy. Not for drinks. Or for really hot monkey sex. Or drinks and really hot monkey sex.
No way. Nuh, uh. Not this vampire.
“You can take my car,” my mother offered.
Car was slang for my mother’s coveted red V8 Porsche convertible which she never—repeat never—let me touch, much less drive.
Except that one time.
But then she’d gotten the bill for all the damage done by that telephone pole that had jumped out in the middle of the road—I swear—and my Porsche privileges had gone the way of the one-eyed Caribbean were crab.
I had a quick vision of myself flying down the road, stereo blaring, hair blowing in the wind, soft Italian leather surrounding me, all that power right at my fingertips…
A few drinks couldn’t hurt, right? I mean, sure I was sort of straddling the fence when it came to control, but I could keep my hands to myself if it meant proving to my mother that she could start loaning me the Porsche every now and then.
I nodded. “Drinks would be good.”
“Great.” My mother smiled and reached for her keys. “Remy can drive.”
Was I having shitty luck or what?
Remy went to bring the car around while I drowned my sorrows in another glass of red sustenance and tried to come up with an excuse to bail.
I was debating between “There’s a nuclear weapon hidden in the subways of New York and I’m the only one who can show the police the exact location before the whole city goes up in a mushroom cloud” and “I left the iron on” when my cellphone rang.
“She’s gone,” Vinnie said the minute I punched TALK.
My heart stopped beating. I forgot the bottle I’d been nursing and walked to a far corner out of earshot. “What do you mean gone?”
“I mean gone, as in poof, the TV’s still blaring and her lights are on, but she’s not there.”
“She has to be somewhere.” She couldn’t have vanished into thin air.
Or could she?
While I hadn’t actually seen any disappearing tricks in any of last night’s movies, I wasn’t so sure it was out of the realm of possibility.
“Did you ask around? Maybe she went to the market or the laundromat.”
“Who cares? The point is, she’s gone and I’m going home.”
Panic rushed through me. “But we have to find her.”
“Finding some chick isn’t part of my lesson. I was supposed to watch her and keep my hands off. Mission accomplished. I need to sleep.”
“Self-sacrifice,” I blurted. “To really bring out the inner pansy, one must peel away the layers of selfishness. The only way to do that is to sacrifice. You give up sleep and you’re one layer closer to Carmen.”
“You’re fried, lady.”
“Fine. Don’t listen to me. But when your mother is saying a dozen Hail Marys for her pathetic excuse of a son who can’t find it in his heart to give up a few measly hours of sleep so that she can have even one grandchild—”
“All right, already.” He sighed. “Jesus, have you met my mother? Because I swear you just nailed her.”
“Lucky guess.” And a lot of experience.
My gaze slid to my own mother, who eyeballed me and mouthed hurry up.
“Stay put. I’ll be right there,” I told Vinnie. “Dating emergency,” I announced as I snatched up my purse and aimed for the front door. “I have to get back to the office.” An engine purred somewhere out back and I added, “Tell Remy I’m sorry.”
“But,” my mother’s voice followed me, “the two of you barely had a chance to get to know each other.”
Maybe I wasn’t having such shitty luck after all.
Sixteen
I headed back to the city via the fastest means of emergency transport—life flight for the average human, the batmobile for us born vamps.
A half hour later, I stood on the front steps of Evie’s building—she leased a third-floor apartment in Greenwich Village—with her downstairs neighbor and landlord, Mr. Ernest Wallace.
Seventy-five. Never been married. Met the woman of his dreams in Italy during World War II, but she was already married and so the relationship had never stood a chance. She’d stayed with her husband and Ernie had headed home to open a comic book shop on Lexington. He’d sold the store a few years back. He was now president of the Neighborhood Watch Association, since he spent most of his days sitting in his kitchen, playing cards, and staring out his window.
He’d been doing just that two hours ago when he’d heard Evie switch off her TV upstairs (he not only kept an eye on everything, but he also kept his hearing aid tuned to CHRIST THIS IS LOUD). A few seconds later, he’d heard footsteps on the stairs. The door had opened and he’d watched Evie stomp down the front stoop. She’d been wearing blue jeans, black combat boots, and an oversized flannel shirt.
If I’d had even one doubt about the whole possession thing, it went bye-bye the moment I heard the play-by-play regarding her wardrobe.
She was shacked up with a demon, all right.
“And,” Ernest went on, “she had all that pretty blond hair of hers pulled back in one of those scrunchie things you gals are always wearing.”
Make that Satan, himself.
The one ray of sunshine in an otherwise rain-drenched sky?
She hadn’t pulled a Casper and vanished into thin air.
Rather, she’d vanished in a grimy yellow cab—license plate too dirty to read—driven by a Jamaican man.
At least Ernest thought the man was Jamaican. He could also have been Puerto Rican or Indian, or any of the other zillion nationalities floating around the Big Apple.
“Why don’t you call a few of the cab companies and give them a description? Why, I bet you’ll have no trouble locating the driver that picked her up.”
Um, yeah.
There were about as many foreign cab drivers in New York City as there were Hannah Montana fans in the continental U.S.
“Miss Evie ain’t in any trouble, is she? Edna up in 2D says Evie’s a communist on account of she’s always getting those Democrat mailers, but I’m a Democrat and I ain’t no communist.”
“Actually, she is in a little trouble. Nothing political, though. This is personal.”
He shook his head. “Those dad-burned drugs’ll get you every time.”
“No drugs.”
“Debt?”
Not as much as yours truly. I shook my head. “No, nothing like that.”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “A love triangle?”
“There are only two parties involved in this.”
“That’s a relief. Love triangles never work. Except for that young gun down in 1B. He brought home two women the other night and they didn’t leave until after breakfast the next morning. I had my shotgun ready for trouble, you know, ’cause women can be mighty possessive. But these two were as friendly as clams. Nice young man, too, even if he is a little too big for his britches, if you know what I mean. Say, I could introduce you if you want. As pretty as you are, you could probably settle him down real quick.”
“No thanks. Listen, I really appreciate your help.” I handed Ernest a Dead End Dating card. “Call my cell if she comes home. Or if you’d like to trade in the solitaire for couples bridge.”
“Ain’t never played no bridge. Played strip poker once, but I had a bad case of athlete’s foot. When my turn came, I slid off the old loafers and that pretty much cleared out the room.”
“You can keep your shoes on during bridge.”
“All righty then.” He grinned and slid the card into his pocket.
I gave Ernes
t a smile, an extra card for the young gun in 1B, and a mental Forget Italy and get over it already. There are at least a dozen women out there who would love to play cards with you. And maybe even a few who wouldn’t mind the athlete’s foot.
Hey, it takes all kinds.
I left the apartment building and climbed into the passenger’s seat of the black Cadillac that idled at the curb.
Vinnie slumped over the wheel, his mouth wide open, his nostrils flared. A loud zzzzzzz drowned out the old Van Morrison song playing on the radio.
Touching a fingertip under his chin, I snapped his mouth shut. The zzzzzzz turned to a muffled arghhhh. I fastened my seat belt and debated my options all of five seconds—I had only one—before pulling out my cellphone.
Ash answered on the second ring.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Lil.”
“I already knew that.”
“I’m fine, how are you?” I shook my head. “Haven’t you ever heard of phone etiquette?”
“Did you call to test my manners or did you have something on your mind?”
“Well, since you seem to think this demon has been”—or is—“hanging around my office, I thought I should get a few details. Just so I know what I’m dealing with if he happens to show up again.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Just the usual stuff. Favorite color. Favorite food. Where he might go if he were possessing an innocent woman addicted to TiVo.” Okay, so maybe that was a little too detailed. “Not that he is,” I rushed on. “I’m just speaking theoretically. If he were and he wanted to get out for a little while and stretch his legs, where exactly would he go and what might he do?”
“He’ll go to his usual hangout.”
“Usual for the possesser or the possessee?”
“The demon. He’ll search out a familiar place and try to follow his usual MO.”
“What’s his MO?”
“He likes to mutilate and torture young women between the ages of twenty and thirty-five.”
My heart stopped. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Hardly. This particular demon was once a serial killer back in the seventies. He faced off with the cops, they won, and he took a bullet to the head. The body went six feet under and the spirit headed straight to Hell. He’s been serving the Big Guy for the past couple of decades. He escaped a few weeks ago and I’ve been chasing him ever since.”
“But he hasn’t actually killed anyone since the escape, right?”
“Wrong. Once he settled into a new body—it took about a week for him to overpower the guy’s spirit—he sliced up a woman from Long Island and two girls from Jersey.”
“So he could be in Long Island or Jersey?” It wasn’t as specific as I would have liked, but at least it narrowed things down some.
“All three bodies were found in the city. We know from the past that he doesn’t like to make the actual kill too far from where he does his shopping.”
“And he shops where?”
“The two Jersey girls frequented the same club in lower Manhattan. That’s where he met them. The Long Island woman he picked up at a bar just around the corner. Both places were near Times Square, so we’ve been combing the clubs and bars in that area for some sign of him—a feeling, a smell, something. So far we’ve come up with zilch. He must be lying low.”
“Or watching CSI: Miami reruns,” the words came out before I could stop them. “Or, you know, whatever.”
He went silent for a long moment before he murmured, “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No.” I was most definitely NOT holding something back. Rather, I was holding a lot of somethings back. Guilt niggled at me and I decided to launch my own offensive as a diversion. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Hell, yes.”
My curiosity was piqued. “Like what?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just be careful and keep your eyes open. If you see anything remotely suspicious, do not interfere.”
I crossed my fingers. “I would never do such a thing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, really.”
“Keep your nose out of it.”
“Your wish is my command.”
He went suspiciously quiet again, as if he didn’t buy my cooperation. Smart guy. “I mean it, Lil. We’re talking torture and mutilation here. This demon is extremely dangerous. He’s just settled into a new body, which buys us a little time before he gets homicidal. When the possession is still in the early stages, there’s an internal struggle going on. The battle will keep him busy for now. But once he wins the fight, he’ll start killing again. Guaranteed.”
“Even if he’s possessing someone who’s kind and sweet and has really fantastic computer skills?”
“What?”
“What if this person has such a good spirit,” I rushed on, the words tumbling out before I could stop them, “that he won’t be able to take complete control and do anything really awful?” I held tight to my hope. “That could happen, right?”
“Unless we’re talking a bona fide saint, the answer is no. He’ll overpower whichever human spirit he’s battling right now, and then he’ll kill again. And again. And he won’t stop until I stop him.”
“By chopping off his head and cutting him into tiny pieces?”
“The body is his vessel. His source of strength. If we destroy the body, he has no protection.”
“Unless he jumps into another body, right?”
“Exactly. That’s why it’s important that you don’t interfere. You’re just as vulnerable to him as any human.”
“Then why didn’t he possess me when I tackled him outside the church?”
“Maybe you didn’t hold on to him long enough. Touching is key in the transfer process. Anyone’s fair game if they touch him, even a vampire. It’s not as likely, of course, because a vampire’s spirit is much stronger than the average human’s and, therefore, harder to suppress. But it has happened. My brothers and I are the only ones not susceptible to him.”
“If you guys are all that, then how come he escaped in the first place?”
“A fluke. We’d just arrived on the scene when he had the run-in with you. After that, Mo and Zee were dragging him toward the sanctuary so he would be trapped—a demon can’t escape a religious dwelling or any space marked with holy water or religious symbols. That’s when the maintenance man showed up. He accidentally bumped into the demon, and just like that he was gone. We didn’t realize it until after the fact. By the time we realized what had happened and tracked down the maintenance guy, the demon had already body-hopped again.”
Straight into Evie.
“We’re retracing his steps and trying to pinpoint when and where the demon bailed,” Ash went on. “We can’t risk another escape. That’s why my brothers and I have to be the only ones involved in the takedown. A demon can’t possess another demon.”
Nor could he possess anyone pure of heart (see the saint reference above). At least, that’s what I’d learned during the demon marathon. That, and the average minion of Satan could levitate furniture and cuss like a sailor and do Olympic-worthy projectile vomiting.
“Can’t you just cast him out of the body first and then take him back to Hell?”
“And how do you suggest I do that? A spirit is intangible. I have to have something tangible to take back.”
“Why not force him into a bottle?”
“He’s a demon, not a genie.”
“A Ziploc baggie?” I was grasping, I knew. But I had to figure out a way to help Evie.
“He’s not a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. There’s only one way to take him back, and that’s via a sliced and diced tangible body.”
“Then how did he escape the flames of Hell in the first place?”
“A near-death experience. People don’t always see the proverbial light. Sometimes, they take a right turn and end up seeing hellfire and brimstone instead. In this cas
e, a certain bad guy doomed to Hell arrived a little too soon via a near-fatal car accident. The demon hopped a ride when the Big Boss sent the new arrival packing.”
“I still don’t—” I started, but Ash cut me off.
“I mean it, Lil. Don’t interfere.” And then he hung up.
I mulled over Ash’s words for a split second and then I nudged Vinnie’s arm. “Wake up.” When he didn’t budge, I pinched him.
He bolted upright, his disoriented gaze bouncing around the inside of the car. “What the fuck?”
“Let’s go.”
“Home?” He looked so hopeful (and tired) that I almost nodded. Almost.
But I’d already made up my mind to help Evie and I wasn’t changing it, no matter if Ash had given me the heebie-jeebies.
I know, right? Super-vamp, invincible, yada yada. Still, my heart pounded and my stomach jumped and I felt as if I’d swallowed one of my dad’s golf balls.
“Times Square,” I forced the words out. “And hurry it up. We don’t have much time.”
Seventeen
It was half past midnight and we were on our fifth club when I finally spotted Evie.
I stood just inside the doorway of Ladies Night, a popular lesbian martini bar on West Forty-third, just around the corner from the Hard Rock Cafe. It was a far cry from my favorite haunts (Butter and the Beatrice Inn), but it definitely fit with the demon’s MO. The place screamed chick magnet.
Pink walls accented a mirrored bar that ran the length of one wall. A sizable dance floor dominated the far end of the room. The crowd was a mix of blue-collar and professional, the women dressed in everything from business suits to jeans and tees. The air reeked of estrogen and cigarette smoke.
My gaze sliced through the hormonal fog, to the couple at the far end of the bar.
Evie stood with a buff redhead wearing a tank top that read FOREVER FITNESS. I sent out a silent vibe and the woman glanced up.
Jean Crowder. Twenty-eight. Personal trainer and editor for Bitch Beat, the official newsletter for the New York chapter of Women for the Advancement of Lesbian Culture. She was actively looking for that one special woman (or two) so that she could give up the bar scene and party in the comfort of her own living room (complete with video cam). She thought the female in front of her had terrific camera potential. She wasn’t too thrilled with the bad breath, but a few tic tacs and poof, no longer an issue.
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