Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires

by Adrian Phoenix

  “Adorably naive, right. What about the undead issue? The standard ‘pretend to be a human pretending to be a vampire’ routine?”

  “Yes, with lots of wink-winks. Your usual ironic self.”

  He nods, then hands me his backpack of CDs before heading off to join Jeremy.

  Bill Riley’s “Flying Saucers Rock ‘n’ Roll” fades out, and Spencer’s honey-smooth drawl comes out of the speakers.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we got two hours left ‘til Halloween. Time for me to say good night, but I’m gonna turn it over to my great friend, ‘Mississippi’ Monroe Jefferson.” The crowd whistles and hollers, especially the older members. Spencer continues, “He’ll play you some blues that I guarantee’ll send a shiver down your spine.”

  He steps aside and adjusts the microphone down to the level of Monroe, who has appeared in the chair behind him, like in a magic trick. Another cheer. The stage light makes Monroe’s suit glow white, setting off his smooth ebony skin and the lustrous scarlet of his acoustic guitar.

  Monroe lets loose with a weepingly beautiful version of Robert Johnson’s “Me and the Devil Blues.” I smile at the choice; the story of his turning is well known by his fans. Like several legendary musicians of his place and time, Monroe supposedly went to the crossroads at midnight, to trade his soul to the Devil for the ability to master the blues. A vampire was waiting for him, and the rest is history.

  The blues always makes me want to drink, so I head to the bar and signal to Stuart, the owner of the Smoking Pig, who is making a valiant attempt to look like Simon Le Bon of Duran Duran.

  He slides a bottle of my favorite beer across the bar. “How’s it going with the reporter?”

  “Journalists are a lot harder to impress than the general public.” I watch him light a cigarette. “Any luck on that smoking ban waiver?”

  Stuart shakes his head in disgust. “I sent the state a photo of the sign hanging over our front door. I said, ‘If you look closely, you’ll notice that under the words ‘The Smoking Pig’ is an illustration of a pig with a cigarette. They didn’t care.” He takes a hostile puff. “Fascists.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Set up an outdoor lounge with space heaters. It’ll cost a fortune.”

  “Hey, Ciara,” comes a voice at my elbow. Lori sidles close and adjusts the poof of my ponytail. “I remember that guy Jeremy from my History of the Middle East class senior year. Smart, but kinda intense. He said he hoped the Iraq war lasted long enough for him to be an embedded reporter.”

  “A thrill-seeker, huh?” I watch him in the corner speaking with Shane, scribbling madly in his notebook. Shane maintains a casual posture against the wall, but his supernatural stillness creates a magnetic field that seems to have snagged the journalist. “I don’t like it.”

  “Why not?” she asks me just as Monroe finishes his song to a rush of applause. “Don’t you want the publicity?”

  “I want fawning puff pieces about how cool it is to be a vampire. I don’t want someone to find out the truth.”

  Lori hurries off to pick up an order as Monroe begins another song. I watch his fingers glide over the strings like a water bug skimming a pond. He makes it look so easy. Shane tried to teach me guitar last month—I stopped after two days and ten blisters.

  A familiar arm slides over my shoulders. I lean into Shane and crane my neck to look behind him. “Where’s the reporter?”

  “Interviewing Spencer.” He hesitates. “I think he wants to be bitten.”

  “Lori said he was weird. Are you sure?”

  Shane nods. “A vampire can smell an eager donor a mile away.”

  “Do I need to forbid you to bite a reporter?”

  He rolls his eyes. “I’m not that dumb. Anyway, I don’t think he thinks I’m really a vampire.”

  “Because that’s insane.”

  “I think he thinks I’m a wannabe.”

  Ah yes. In the “real” vampire subculture, some humans believe they need to drink blood to thrive, and there are people lined up to oblige them. Lacking fangs, they use razors or needles to bleed their “donors.”

  Some of those donors find their way to a real-real vampire, and if they can be trusted to hide the truth, the two form a symbiotic relationship. The donors exchange blood for money or sex or—most commonly—the masochistic thrill of serving a creature that could rip off their heads.

  Not for me. The sensation of being stabbed with a pair of ice picks does nothing for my self-esteem or libido.

  At a minute to midnight, my boy takes over the stage from Monroe, who tips his hat to the worshipping crowd on his way out. No one dares to follow. Like Spencer and the other older vampires, Monroe’s charisma holds an edge of menace that sane people wisely avoid. It’s why we ask them to wear sunglasses in public whenever possible.

  Shane, on the other hand, exudes humanity, giving his admirers a friendly wave as he moves to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, the time is twelve a.m. It is now. Officially. Halloween.”

  He hits a switch and a low, hypnotic bass emanates from the speaker—the opening moments of Concrete Blonde’s “Bloodletting.” The patrons writhe and vamp, reveling in the dark magic his music weaves.

  Someone calls my name. I turn to see Lori leaning out of the kitchen, holding onto the edge of the swinging door.

  “What’s up?” I ask as I follow her into the kitchen.

  She takes me behind the salad prep area, where an old boom box sits on a shelf. She turns up the volume. Above the clatter of pans and the sizzle of grease, I hear an angry male voice.

  “—not participate in the unfruitful deeds of darkness, but instead even expose them, as Paul told the Ephesians.” He lets that sink in. “Don’t let the secular media and your children’s public school teachers convince you that Halloween is harmless fun. Your tolerance is their greatest weapon in this culture war. Fact: Halloween is a pagan holiday that glorifies darkness and evil and everything God wants us to fight.”

  I glance past her at the chef/dishwasher, who’s searing a pair of burgers on the grill, then at the ceramic white statue of the Virgin Mary above the prep table. “When did Jorge get born again?”

  Lori shakes her head. “It’s supposed to be WVMP.”

  “No, it’s just mistuned.” I twist the grease-encrusted knob, searching for the station. “The antenna probably got knocked.”

  “I already tried that. I was here when it happened, just now.” She points to the wall clock, which reads a minute after midnight. “Regina was giving her usual creepy intro, then suddenly it was this guy.”

  I tweak the dial again and again, but there’s no Regina, no Bauhaus, no Sex Pistols. Just a whole lotta Jesus goin’ on.

  “I better get David.”

  The kitchen door sweeps inward, banging into the stainless steel dishwasher. My boss stalks toward us, dressed as Bruce Springsteen circa Born in the U.S.A., cell phone at his ear. As David passes me, I hear a woman’s screech from the earpiece.

  “I’ll call you back.” He shuts the phone as he stomps up to the radio, the bandana around his ripped blue jeans flapping with each step.

  “She’s not on,” I tell him. “It’s some guy nutting off about Satan.”

  David adjusts the knob up and down, only to get another dose of Ranty Man.

  He curses under his breath. “Regina said she’s flooded with calls.”

  “It happened exactly at midnight,” Lori offers.

  “Strange.” David stares at the boom box. “It’s like another station was just created on the same frequency.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” I ask him.

  “Extremely.” He rubs the dark, uneven stubble on his chin, a look he’s been working on for a week (and, if I may say, has been worth the wait). “If it’s a pirate operation, the FCC could slap them with a fine and confiscate their equipment, maybe even throw them in jail.”

  “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s report them.”

  He
gives me a patronizing glare, like I’ve suggested we call up Santa Claus. “Ciara, the FCC doesn’t exactly have a twenty-four-hour emergency number. We’ll have to file a report during business hours.”

  “What if it’s not pirates?” I gesture to the radio. “It sounds too high-quality to be coming out of someone’s basement. What if it’s another real station?” My mind sounds the cha-ching! of a cash register. “Can we sue them?”

  David turns away, dark brows furrowed. “If it’s a real station,” he murmurs, “I might be able to find out—” He looks at Lori. “Can I use your boss’s computer?”

  She points to the back of the kitchen. “There’s Stuart’s office. Sorry about the mess.”

  David speaks to me as he strides away. “Call Regina, tell her to get the location of everyone who can’t hear us.”

  I head back to the bar, where Shane is onstage and on the phone. He pulls his head away from the phone, as if it’s delivering electric shocks.

  I weave through the crowd to the edge of the stage, then mouth the word, “Regina?” to him. Shane nods. Good thing his eardrums are as immortal as the rest of him.

  I signal for him to hand me the phone. He shakes his head but obliges. “Be careful!” he shouts.

  I move away from the speakers to hear Regina. Unnecessary. Astronauts on the International Space Station can probably hear her.

  “Hey, it’s me,” I say as calmly as I can. “David says to find out the locations of all the callers who can’t hear us.”

  “Don’t you think I thought of that?” Regina’s voice is even harsher than usual. “They’re everywhere—D.C., Sherwood, Baltimore, Harrisburg, every town in between. This isn’t some half-assed pirate operation. Someone is fucking with me.”

  “I doubt it’s personal. It’s probably just an anti-Halloween demonstration by religious wackos. David says he might find out who it is by looking on the Internet.”

  There’s a long pause before her voice comes back, muted. “Really?”

  Regina died in 1987, so her entire experience of the Internet consists of the Matthew Broderick movie WarGames. To her, the Web is omnipotent, able to produce tragedies and miracles with a few keywords.

  “Go on with the show as if nothing’s happened,” I tell her, “and we’ll be at the station after the bar closes at two.”

  She gives a tight sigh. “I wish I could figure out how to blame you for this.”

  I hang up the phone as Jeremy approaches me, notebook in hand. “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Of course. Why?”

  “The way you and the station manager were running around, it looks like there’s a crisis.”

  “Nope.” I adjust my sunglasses. “No crisis.”

  “You mean, other than the fact that no one can hear your broadcast?” In response to my stunned look, he holds up his own phone. “My roommate just texted me.”

  Crap. How many other media outlets have noticed already? How many advertisers have noticed?

  He steps closer, a new gleam in his eye. “Let me help you find the pirate.”

  “I don’t think so.” That’s all we need, for him to snoop around and discover the real truth. “Thanks, anyway.” I pat his arm and turn toward the stage.

  “This could be a huge story,” he says.

  I stop. Visions of the station, the logo, maybe even Shane’s face, on the cover of Rolling Stone form a slide show in my head. Visions of solvency. Visions of survival.

  I turn back to Jeremy. “Give us a day to put our own people on it. I’ll get you something Thursday morning.”

  “Exclusive?”

  “Through the weekend.”

  “Good enough.” He tucks his notebook back into his pocket. “I’m going to drive back home to College Park and listen myself. I’ll call you Thursday.”

  On my way back to the kitchen, I wing Shane’s cell phone toward the stage. He snags it with a deft maneuver.

  In Stuart’s dim office, I find David leaning close to the monitor, his worried face aglow in the pale white light. He gives me a distracted glance as I pick my way through the piles of papers and stacks of shrink-wrapped Halloween bar napkins.

  “Found something odd.” David points to the screen. “The FCC keeps a public record of every application. Here’s one for a translator construction permit from earlier this month right here in Sherwood.”

  “A what construction?”

  “Translator. It’s a two-way antenna that takes a radio signal and transmits it way outside the station’s original range. Let’s say we wanted to broadcast in Poughkeepsie. We’d build translator stations to relay the signal, and then everyone between here and there could hear us.”

  “But we couldn’t trample on another station’s frequency, right?”

  “Right. To stay legal, we’d have the translator change our frequency to one that’s available in our target area. If we’re 94.3 here, we might be 102.1 in Scranton.”

  I squint at the browser to see what looks like an application from a Family Air Network, Inc. “But these people didn’t bother switching.”

  “No, they bothered.” David highlights a box on the application. “Specifically requested our frequency.” He rips off his Springsteen headband and glares up at me. “They’re after us.”