“But what about you? What if you doze off and miss—”
“I won’t.” He slips his own phone into his jeans pocket. “I’m going back to the station.”
“Now?”
“I have a lot of work to do.” He pulls his shirt on and looks at my surprised face. “What? I leave in the middle of the night all the time. I’m a nocturnal creature with a life of my own, such as it is. I’m not your teddy bear.”
“But we’re having a . . . a—”
“Fight?”
“Discussion. You can’t just walk out in the middle of it.”
“This isn’t the middle, Ciara.” He picks up his shoes. “This is the end.”
My stomach plummets as I stare at him. Is he breaking up with me?
I can’t breathe, and he’s just sitting there on the edge of the bed, tying his shoes, as if the world didn’t just skid to a squealing, grinding halt.
“But . . .’’ My lungs fill with hot fluid that any second now is going to bubble up through my nose and eyes and—
I burst into tears, my chest lurching with sobs. My eyes squeeze out water like twin fire hoses.
Shane’s at my side in an instant, his strong arms enfolding me. “Ciara, what? What’s wrong?” His voice is urgent, bewildered.
“You said—” I choke on another sob. “You said it was over.”
“What? No, I meant the conversation. Not us. Jesus, not us, not ever. I love you.” Shane caresses my face and presses his forehead to mine. “How could you even think that?” He kisses my tear - soaked mouth. “I’ll never leave you, Ciara, I swear. I swear to God, I won’t.”
I pull him into a harder, hungrier kiss and shove my hands under his shirt. Though my body is already aching and exhausted, I need to feel him alive against me—as alive as he’ll ever be.
We make love like the world just missed an apocalypse, and afterward he doesn’t leave, doesn’t even move, just strokes my hair and tells me that these arguments are only us working out the kinks, and none of that stuff will ever threaten what we share.
I listen, and try to believe.
Sunday night finds me cramming for tomorrow’s midterm exam, a convenient distraction from last night’s soul - shaking angst.
Due to my fifty - hours - a - week job as promotions manager and vampire wrangler, I only have time for one course this semester: business ethics. If nothing else, the readings keep me awake. It’s hard to doze off while laughing.
I’m sipping my third cup of coffee, feet on the back of my ratty sofa, trying to decipher my handwriting, when my cell phone blasts my latest Amy Winehouse fave.
I stretch out toward the coffee table to answer it, my body stiff and sore from too much vampire sex (note: too much is always just right). The caller ID tells me it’s my boss. I open the phone.
“David, you know I don’t work Sundays, due to my pious devotion to the Church of the Sacred Slacker.”
“Dexter’s gone.”
My mouth goes dry, and my hand tightens on the phone. “Oh my God.” Tears fill my eyes, still swollen from last night’s jag of projectile crying. “Was it sunlight?”
“No, he’s not dead. Not yet, anyway. He got away from me on our walk. Yanked the leash right out of my hand and took off down the road.”
I slap the textbook shut and sit up. “I’m on it. Call the station. Have the DJs do an announcement after every song. Big reward for info—give away all our concert tickets if we have to—but nobody touches Dexter.” I shove my feet into my shoes and grab my jacket from the back of the sofa. “Do a phone tree, have all the vampires comb the county looking for him. I’ll call Lori. Dole out the vials of dog blood to use as bait for the vamps Dexter doesn’t know.”
“Ciara, I’m so sorry. If anything happens to him, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Yeah yeah.” I head down the hall and duck into my bedroom, where I snatch my keys and purse from my desk. “Just tell me where you saw him last.”
“I chased him as far as the highway, but I didn’t see which way he went.”
Highway. With any other dog, that word would give me a heart attack. But Dexter can’t be killed by a car. On the other hand, he could cause a nasty accident, and the last thing we need are tabloid reports of a giant self - resurrecting canine.
As I climb into my car, I try not to imagine my furry little dude going up in flames at the first light of day.
“Once again, folks, the lost dog is armed and dangerous.” Shane’s voice emanates from my car radio at 2:55 a.m., finishing Regina’s show. “Do not attempt to capture this beast—he can kick your ass with three paws tied behind his back. Just call me at WVMP if you have any information. Fruitful tips bring your choice of concert tickets or cold hard cash.” He pauses. “If Regina were on the air, she would say that Shane McAllister is coming up at the top of the hour to put you to sleep with his Whatever broadcast. Then I would come on and we would commit witty repartee. But as you may have heard, Regina keeps getting preempted by the forces of darkness. You can show your support by calling the FCC’s Enforcement Division.” He recites the phone number. “Tell them we want justice. But more than anything, we want our dog back.”
I turn down the volume on the Stooges’ “I Wanna Be Your Dog” so I can call Lori again. Nobody’s seen one flash of Dexter’s stealthy little butt. He could be halfway to Pennsylvania by now. Maybe he’ll find a place to dig a hole and stay underground all day.
Or maybe he won’t know the sun is coming until it’s too late. He may be smart, but he’s still just a dog, a species not known for its planning skills.
I turn onto my own street as I hit Lori’s speed dial number. I had to come back to town to get gas, and while I was in the neighborhood I figured I’d check my place, just in case Dexter was—
Here.
Even through my closed windows, even over the crash of the Stooges on the radio, I can hear the vampire dog’s bellowing bark. A crowd is gathered around my apartment door— mostly people in bathrobes and slippers, dragged out of bed to witness the spectacle.
Lori’s voice comes out of the speaker. “Ciara?”
In my horror, I forgot I dialed her number. “I think I found Dexter. Call David and tell him he’s about to have two new roommates.”
Faces turn in my direction at the shine of my headlights over the crowd. I consider driving away and pretending I don’t live here. But only for a second.
I U - turn into the empty spot across the street, then hop out of the car and push through the crowd toward my front door, which stands next to the pawn shop entrance.
Past the shoulder of Mrs. Crosby from two apartments over, I glimpse Dexter’s huge form lying on the sidewalk in front of my door. Hmm, I wonder what all the fuss is about.
I sidle past Mrs. Crosby, almost getting poked in the eye with one of her pink curlers, then stop short.
Dexter isn’t lying on the sidewalk. He’s lying on Dean.
My dog has killed my landlord.
One of the old men from down the street hobbles forward, brandishing his cane. Dexter snarls like a wolf guarding fresh prey, and the man hustles back into the safety of the crowd.
A woman I don’t recognize screeches, “I called the cops!”
I jostle my way to the front of the mob, wondering what the food will taste like in jail. “Dexter, come!”
The dog leaps off Dean’s body and runs toward me. The crowd surges back. He makes soft woofing noises as he circles my legs, sniffing my feet as if to confirm who I am. I grab what’s left of his leather leash, which is torn ragged from being dragged over five miles of road and woods and hills.
Dean rises slowly from the sidewalk, his face as pale as a zombie’s. My landlord stands, using the rusty white down-spout to support himself, then slumps back against the build-ing’s brick façade. He looks slightly bruised but not bleeding.
He points a shaky finger at Dexter and opens his mouth.
I hold up a hand. “I know. We’re gone.”
>
7
God Save the Queen
I trudge down the steep stairs of Statler Hall, my thighs screaming with each step. I must have pulled something during this morning’s relocation.
At least I got Dexter out of my neighborhood before the cops arrived. Then I spent the day putting most of my stuff in storage and moving the bare necessities temporarily into David’s house, where I’ll be living until I can find another apartment.
What I did not spend the last twenty - four hours doing is studying for this midterm, and it showed.
Cursing David and Dexter, I let the younger students shove by on their way to their next class.
At the bottom of the stairs, a man steps in front of me.
“Ciara.” The pale hazel eyes of Jeremy Glaser, cub reporter, stare at me through his round glasses and a circle of smudged black eyeliner. So that really wasn’t a Halloween costume.
“Right on time.” I wanted to meet him in a public place, seeing as he’s creeping me out. “Let’s talk outside.”
The night air is chilly, and I button my coat up to the top. Jeremy deploys his dark gray thrift - store hoodie and shuffles along beside me, his black, thick - soled sneakers scraping the sidewalk as we head for the well - lit fountain at the center of the green.
I sit on the granite edge of the fountain. A couple is cuddling on the opposite side of the circle, but the trickling water will mask our voices.
“So what do you have for me?” I ask him.
“FAN’s financial statements.” He opens his bag and pulls out a folder. “They came close to filing for bankruptcy last year.”
“That’s what David said.”
“Their third quarter financial report just came out, and look at this.” He shines a pen - size flashlight on a revenue line item. “Huge foundation grant.”
“Two million dollars?” Pennies from heaven, indeed.
He flips a page. “Their operational budget shot up, too. All those translators.” He hands me a stack of FCC applications.
“David showed me these, too. Looks like they’re doing a massive expansion.”
“Yeah, but for the most part, it’s not at anyone else’s expense. You guys are the only ones they’re targeting.”
My fist wants to crumple the applications and shove them down someone’s throat. “How can they get away with this?”
“Turns out the FCC chair is a big fan of religious broadcasting.”
I scoff. “Go figure.”
“So without outside pressure, the complaint you filed will go in the queue with all the rest, handled in an orderly fashion.”
“What’s orderly?”
He leans away, as if escaping the blast radius. “Two years?”
“Two years?” I want to hurl the financial report into the fountain. “Our advertisers will abandon us. In two years we could be long out of business.”
“I said, without outside pressure.” Jeremy holds out a pen in the fingertips of both hands, as if he’s presenting me with Excalibur. “Don’t forget the power of the press.”
“Ah.” Hope glimmers inside me. “So you write your story, and we not only get better ratings, we also get justice.”
“And truth, and the American way.” He smiles and shoves the swoop of blond hair out of his eyes.
“Find out the name of this foundation that’s giving the Family Action Network two million dollars. Follow the money.”
“Hey, who’s the journalist here? I’ll do what I can, but now it’s your turn to answer questions.”
I suppose it’s only fair. “Fine. Shoot.”
“I just have one.” Jeremy takes a quick inhale, then the muscles of his face tighten up in a sudden show of tension. “See, I was wondering . . .” He frowns and turns away so that he’s facing forward, not looking at me.
“Wondering what?”
He folds and unfolds his hands, intertwining his slim fingers. I notice a tattoo on the inside of his left wrist—a fake slit with a trail of blood drops disappearing under his sleeve. Whoa.
“This is going to sound crazy, but . . .” He stops fidgeting and turns to me again. “Are the DJs really vampires?”
I chuckle in a way that I hope isn’t patronizing. I’ve had this question before, but never so tongue - out - of - cheek.
“Yes.”
His jaw drops. “I knew it.” “I mean, yes, it does sound crazy.”
His mouth closes and tightens. “Is that a denial?”
“It’s not a serious question.”
“I sense something about them.” He glances at the couple on the other side of the fountain and lowers his voice. “Like we’re kindred spirits.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Do you think you’re a vampire?” “Of course not. I never thought they existed. It’s insane, right?”
“Yep.”
“But after meeting your DJs, I started to wonder. They’re creatures of the dark, just like me.”
“Huh.” I place my book bag between us and pretend to search for something inside. Mainly I just want an excuse to scoot farther away. “Well, they do work at night.”
“Come on, Ciara.” He yanks my backpack strap to get my attention, and I consider acquainting his nose with the heel of my hand. “They never go out in the sunlight.”
“Sure they do.”
“I can’t find anyone who’s seen them during the day.”
“That doesn’t mean it never happens.”
“Why do they all live at the station?”
“Because it’s free. DJing doesn’t pay very well.”
“I’d like to see their apartment.”
“It’s private. I’m not even allowed in there.”
My eyelid twitches as I realize my blunder.
Jeremy tilts his head. “Not allowed in your own boyfriend’s home?”
I shrug. “They’re a tight group. No one raises a stink when the Masons or the Mormons don’t allow outsiders into their temples.”
“But if they’re just a bunch of DJs—”
“Ah, but they’re not.” I flutter my lashes in a parody of a public relations flack. “They’re vampire DJs.”
He sits back, examining me. “So it’s all part of the act?”
“Of course.” I lean in, as if sharing a secret. “Our celebrities can’t be spotted in the frozen food aisle or the Ruby Tuesday salad bar. We have to pretend they’re not like other people. Sequestering them during the day is all part of controlling the message.”
“Wow.” He blows out a breath. “Your PR machine is hard-core.”
“It’s my job to maintain the mystique.”
He nods. “And it’s my job to break it.”
“Good luck.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but his gaze trips past me, above my left shoulder. His jaw stays agape.
“Hey, Ciara,” says a familiar, lazy voice.
I turn to see Jim, whose arm is draped around the shoulders of a petite brunette in a long brown coat with a fake leopard - fur trim. She leans into the hippie DJ, melding her body against his in the distinctively needful posture of a blood donor. I glance at the other side of the fountain and realize they were the couple sitting there earlier. Jim probably heard every word we said.
“Hey.” I smile at him, but he’s already shifted his dark eyes to look at Jeremy. I introduce them and add, “Jeremy’s doing a piece on the station for Rolling Stone.”
Before I finish the sentence, Jeremy stands and whips out his business card. “Jim, I’d love to, uh, interview you.”
Jim slips the card into the front pocket of his bell - bottom jeans without reading it. “Any time, man.”
He extends his hand, and I jump up to block it.
Too late. The moment their hands touch, a shiver comes over Jeremy, the kind I get when Shane trails his fingertips down my bare back. His eyelashes flicker.
Jim lets go first, then returns his arm to the girl’s shoulders. She sighs hard, as if she had to stop breathing while he wasn’t touc
hing her.
“I’ll call you.” Jim sustains eye contact with Jeremy—or more precisely, eye - to - throat contact. “Soon.”
He glides away, his steps synchronized with the woman on his hip so they look like they share one body. Which they do—hers.
Jeremy stares after them. I wave my hand in front of his eyes to get his attention. He reluctantly drags his gaze back to me.
“Don’t go alone on that interview,” I tell him. “Any of the others, you’re probably safe. But Jim, he’s—”
“What, a vampire?” His gold - studded brows dip together in a scowl. “Do they exist or not, Ciara?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Then what? The dude does drugs? Big fucking deal.”
I let go a frustrated sigh. “Just keep an eye on your drink.”
“Duh. I’m twenty -four, not four.” He picks up his bag. “And I have a job to do, one that could be my big break. I’ll do whatever it takes to get close to the story.” He turns away, on the same path as Jim, and speaks to me over his shoulder. “With or without your help.”
I carry a hot pizza and a cold six - pack down to David’s cozy family room, where I find him decked out in a dark purple Ray Lewis jersey. The Ravens are about to have their Monday Night Football showdown with their archrivals, the Pittsburgh Steelers. I know this because Shane is currently watching the game at the house of his favorite donor, a fellow Steelers fan. I can guess what the halftime snack will be.
I sit next to David on the plush, threadbare brown couch and hand him a beer and a plate.
He waves away the pizza. “I’m too stoked to eat.” He takes a swig of beer and hurls a raucous holler at the wide - screen TV as the Ravens cavort and pound their chests in the driving rain of Heinz Field.
I stare at the pod person who has replaced my boss. He glances at me, and I can see his enthusiasm struggle against— and kick the ass of—his dignity.
Two minutes into the game, a Steeler with a mass of long hair head - butts the ball out of the hands of Ravens quarterback Steve McNair. David’s shriek echoes off the wood - paneled walls and makes me wish for earplugs. Antoine the cat runs from the room, but Dexter climbs onto the couch between us and plops his head in my lap. Great, now I can’t leave.
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