“Hold still.” Shane wraps his arm over my head, and I realize it’s him covering me. I curl my lips over my teeth to avoid tasting blacktop.
The shrieks suddenly change to oohs and aahs.
“Whoa,” Shane says.
“What is it?” I squirm under him, trying to get a limb out.
“Sorry.” He rolls off and helps me up. “I thought they were gunshots.”
“Me, too, but what is—Whoa.”
Two Roman candles—a green one and a red one—explode in the sky about fifty feet above us, near the highway overpass. As the sparks bloom into graceful showers, they illuminate a twenty - foot black banner hanging from the overpass.
Giant yellow painted letters scream YOUARE GOING TO HELL. The ARE is in red.
More fireworks explode, and applause breaks out. Half the crowd is smiling at us as they clap.
They think we did this as a stunt.
Two police patrol cars screech into the lot, red and blue lights flashing.
David looks at me sideways. “You didn’t, by any chance—”
“No.” I wave my hands, palms out, to ward off his accusation. “Even I wouldn’t go this far for ratings.”
“Just checking.” He glances at Jeremy, then gives me a significant look. “So we just tell the police the truth.”
Right. He means our version of the truth, which won’t mention the aborted arson attempt on the station or anything else that would lead them to the vampires’ happy home.
“Look on the bright side.” Franklin stands beside me and stares at the overpass banner. “At least this time they used correct grammar.”
19
I Ain’t Superstitious
Stakeouts suck. David lives on a hill, which means we have a great vantage point to watch the cross, but it also means the wind speed is about ten miles an hour higher than it is in town. The gusts cut through the unheated attic so hard, Lori and I might as well be outside.
Despite last night’s pyrotechnical warning, WVMP has embarked on a weekend of all - women’s programming, starting with Monroe’s late - night Bessie Smith special. The DJs have recorded an extra set of original broadcasts to add to their regular lineup of live shows.
Our signal has yet to be pirated—not surprising, considering David pulled the plug on the translator. Last night Lori and Travis kept an eye (and binoculars) on the cross to see if any angry FAN personnel came to fix the disabled translator. This morning it’s me and Lori, then David and Franklin. The off - duty DJs will take over tonight if no one has crawled into our trap by then.
Sitting cross - legged on a piece of thinly carpeted plywood, I peer through the tripod - mounted binoculars. Nothing to see yet, other than people putting up Christmas decorations in the development across the highway. This town loves its inflatable snowmen.
“I wish I could’ve been at the party last night,” Lori says.
“Right, instead of here alone with Travis, playing detective. Or doctor, as the case may be.”
“It was freezing, and he doesn’t stay warm for long after he drinks.” She shrugs. “Still, I don’t mind.”
“You should be glad you weren’t there. That fire alarm nearly gave me a heart attack. The police questioning was almost as fun.”
“Do they suspect you guys?”
“Of course. But there’s no evidence. And we were all in plain sight when the fire alarm went off.” I rub my eyes, which already ache from squinting. “So what do you think of the Bitten?”
“They’re nice.” She breathes on her fingers through her woolen gloves. “But only on the outside.” She tightens her pale green scarf. “Sometimes the vampires seem more human than regular people do.”
“Human in what way?”
“Less bullshit. They are what they are. Even someone like Travis, who isn’t thrilled to be a vampire. He has a way about him.” She wraps her hands around her mug of hot chocolate. “You know how most people are always looking around to see who’s watching and what everyone else is thinking?”
“People are self - conscious sheep. It’s in our genes.”
“Vampires don’t do that.”
“Immortality boosts their confidence.” I squint through the binoculars again. “When you have some version of forever to create yourself, you get comfortable in your own skin.”
She slurps her cocoa. “Helps to have someone around like you who can save them.”
I snort. “I can’t save them. I just provide cosmetic enhancement. At most, I’m like an aloe vera salve.”
“Letting Travis keep his hand wasn’t cosmetic. You un-stuck him from that cross.”
“Yeah, good thing he didn’t try to pee on it.”
She almost snarfs her cocoa, then wipes her mouth. “So you think it’s all because of your skepticism?”
“Maybe, but I’m skeptical about that, too.”
This time she doesn’t laugh. “So what would happen if you suddenly got religion? Would you lose your anti - holy powers?”
“I’m not going to get religion.”
“But you know vampires exist, so how can you still believe in nothing?”
“Vampires as a species are older than some of the religions that scare them. So I don’t see why believing in one makes me have to believe in the other.” I stretch my back, which aches from hunching over the binoculars. “See, I think there’s a huge truth behind it all, bigger than any mental box people can construct and label and put on a shelf. A bigger, bullshit -free truth.”
“So maybe that’s where your power comes from—that bigger truth, whatever it is.” Her eyes widen, and her mug almost slips from her hands. “Ciara, what if your power comes from God?”
I scoff and turn back to the binoculars. “You’re nuts.”
“No, listen.” She grabs my elbow. “What if God or the universe or whatever secretly hates religions, because they put God in a box. If God doesn’t want to be in a box, He—or She or It—would find people who get it, like you.”
“And put vampire - healing powers into their blood? Why would a big God care about vampires?”
Her eyes glow with an X-Files gleam. “Good question.”
“Lori, even I’m not so egotistical to think the universe gives a special shit about me. I’m just like everyone else.” She raises her eyebrows. “Maybe not exactly,” I add. “But you make me sound like a miracle worker. I’m just a recovering con artist trying to get her bachelor’s degree.”
“Fine. Be nonspecial. That way you’ll never owe anybody anything.” She checks her watch. “My turn to spy.”
Resenting her dig but unable to deny it, I loosen the screws on the tripod to adjust the height.
Something moves within the field of view.
“Hold on.” I press my eyes to the binoculars.
Two figures are approaching the cross. Their steps are urgent but confident—clearly they’re supposed to be there.
“What is it?” Lori whispers, as if they might hear us from half a mile away.
“Two people, I think both men, based on the way they walk. But I can’t see any detail. Open the window so the glass doesn’t blur it.”
Lori reaches forward and shoves open the tiny window, which swings outward like a barn door and lets in a rush of frigid air. Then she grabs Travis’s camera with the mega -telephoto lens and scoots forward on her belly to the edge of the window.
I adjust the focus, but still can’t bring the faces into resolution. The two men disappear into the trees surrounding the base of the cross. “Sorry, guys. It doesn’t like you anymore.”
The camera clicks and whirs in Lori’s hands.
“What are you taking a picture of?” I ask her. “We can’t even see them.”
“Their car, and its license plate.”
“Brilliant.”
“I’ve learned a few tricks from Travis.”
I poke her outstretched leg beside me.“I bet you have.”
She doesn’t reply at first. “I know you still do
n’t approve of us.”
“If Travis makes you happy, then go for it.”
She turns to smile at me. “Thanks.”
“But the moment he hurts you, I’ll personally spike his Natty Boh with holy water.”
I put my eyes back to the binoculars just as the two men come out of the trees, one waving his arms. They look like they might be yelling at each other. Lori snaps several shots.
“Can you see their faces?” I ask her.
“Almost.” She fiddles with the settings on the camera, then points it out the window again. “Oh my God, you won’t believe this.” The shutter clicks again and again. “Go get David and have him bring Travis’s laptop.”
By the time David ascends to the attic, the men have driven off. Lori plugs the camera into the computer to download the photos, then clicks on the files to bring them up into a slide show.
“Look who’s here,” she says with pride.
I let out a gasp. “It’s Ned.” “Is the other one Kevin?” David asks.
“Definitely not.” I stare at the image of the tall blond man. “I don’t think I’ve seen him before, but I wouldn’t stake my life on it.”
“Ciara’s seen a lot of men,” Lori says with a giggle.
David coughs as he turns the laptop to face him. “Uh, I’ll forward these shots to Travis and have him check the license plate.”
“I have an idea.” I point to the keyboard. “Send it to Colonel Lanham, too. See if he gets the same results. Then we’ll know if we can trust him.”
He nods but gets a strange look on his face. “It goes both ways, Ciara. They have to trust us as well. Which means you have to be completely forthcoming.”
Uh - oh. Something tells me he knows about my dad’s postcard. Maybe he saw it in the bundle of forwarded mail.
Or maybe he’s talking about Regina and Colin’s mystery woman, Sara. How could he know what went on at Outlander that night?
I want to tell David everything, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that secrets are made to be kept. I might not always be honest, but I can still be loyal.
I tried full disclosure once when I was sixteen, testifying about my parents’ fraudulent activities. To show its gratitude for my service to society, the state took my folks away and put me in foster care. That’s what I got for being a rat.
So I just give David a solemn nod with a straight face. “Forthcoming. Of course.”
I hide my face in my giant coffee mug, thinking of my response to Jeremy’s desire for something real. I’ve never known what “real” means, and I’ve built two careers on blurring the lines for everyone else.
The fact that the real thing is waiting for me at home makes me want to stay in this drafty attic all day and all night.
20
Behind Blue Eyes
Dexter doesn’t run to greet me when I walk into the apartment late Saturday evening. Lying on the couch next to Shane, he shifts his chin and flaps his tail.
“Hey.” Shane lifts his hand from the guitar in his lap long enough for a quick wave. “How’d the spy mission go?”
“Productively.” I hang my coat on the hook on the back of the door—the one with a C above it, to avoid a lecture.
“Catch any bad guys?”
“Ned and someone I’ve never seen before. We took their picture and their license plate.” I lean over and kiss him. His lips are cool, and so is his hand when it caresses my face. I pull away. “I’m starving. David made me and Lori and Franklin eat his latest unrecognizable health stew.”
I grab a box of mac ‘n’ cheese from the pantry and notice all the cans are facing forward, with their labels perfectly centered. To my relief, they’re not alphabetized, at least not by any system I can recognize (maybe by third letter of the second ingredient, but I’m not going to check).
While the water boils, I creep back into the living room and sit near Shane and his never - silent guitar.
He pauses and looks at me. “What?”
“I never realized how much you play during your time off.”
“How do you think I get so good? Vampire magic?” He smiles and strums a dramatic riff. “Practice, baby, practice.” Then he sets the guitar on the floor, propping the neck against the arm of the sofa. “Does it bother you?”
I shake my head. “It walls you off from me.”
His mouth opens and his brows pinch in a look of regret. “Sorry. I’m not ignoring you.”
“No, it’s a good thing. Sort of like adding another room to the apartment.”
“Ah. It keeps you from having to deal with me.” He cuts off my apologetic protest. “It’s okay. I know you need your space. So do I. Whatever works.”
I rub my sweaty palms against my jeans. “So you think it’s working so far?”
Shane hesitates, his pale blue gaze shifting to meet mine. “Don’t you?”
“No.” I hold up my hands. “I mean, yes! I don’t not think it’s working.” I shift closer to him, then closer again, right into his lap. “I love having you here.”
His shoulders relax, and he wraps his arms around me. “So far.”
“ ‘So far’ is as much as I’ve lived through.” I kiss him softly, then harder, as my appetite for food shifts to the back of my mind. My arms slide around his neck, and my back arches to meld my body against his.
He breaks the kiss. “Sorry, I can’t right now.” He brushes my hair off my face. “You might notice how cold I am.”
I pull his hand to my mouth and breathe into his palm. “We can turn up the thermostat. I found the instruction manual.”
He shakes his head. “It won’t help. My blood’s just not flowing. I haven’t fed since Thanksgiving.”
“Thanksgiving? That’s almost ten days ago. I thought you needed to drink twice a week.”
“This happens every holiday season.” He rubs his eyes, which, come to think of it, look bleary and sunken. “Every-one’s too busy to be bled.”
“Can you get bank blood?”
“If I have to. But I’m seeing a donor tonight.” He kisses my forehead. “I’ll come home right after.”
“Oh, good.” I slide my finger down the buttons of his shirt. I’m not just looking forward to his improved health—the post- blooddrinking sex is particularly phenomenal.
A hiss comes from the kitchen—the sound of the boiling water splashing onto the stove.
“Are you using the small pot on the big burner?” he asks me. “It could melt the handles.”
“Don’t worry. I got the memo.” I slide off his lap and dash into the kitchen.
“Turn on the exhaust fan so the steam doesn’t warp the cabinets or set off the smoke alarm.”
I do as he suggests, even though the noise blots out his subsequent guitar chords. I finally recognize the song—”Where Are You Going” by Dave Matthews Band—and can’t suppress a smile. Even in his coldest moments, he’s stretching himself into the twenty - first century.
I switch the exhaust fan to low so I can hear better, then turn to the wall - mounted spice rack for the red pepper flakes to add to my mac ‘n’ cheese.
The spices are out of alphabetical order. I didn’t leave them that way, and why would Shane of all people rearrange them at random? Alphabetizing stuff makes him feel sane.
I look closer at the labels. Elizabeth’s spice rack obviously came from a fancy bilingual or Canadian kitchen store, because each spice also includes the French spelling in small print under the English.
Sure enough, that’s the new order.
I take the red pepper (poivre rouge) from the shelf and add it to the mix, wondering what’s next. Rearranging the living room furniture alphabetically, clockwise one day and counterclockwise the next?
Shane’s voice lilts through the air between us, swearing he’s not a hero, for sure, but he wants to be where I am.
Even though it clearly drives him crazy.
I wake Sunday morning into total darkness—the new normal. Our blackout curta
ins maintain a permanent night, and even though my clock says 8:30, not a photon of light creeps into my room.
Shane sleeps beside me, his breath slow and even. Odd that he didn’t wake me when he got home from the donor’s. Maybe he knew I needed the sleep.
His soothing presence, combined with the deceptive, swaddling darkness, makes me want to succumb to sloth and wallow in bed for another lazy hour. But I have homework.
Instead of hitting the floor, my feet sink into fur. Dexter groans and gets up, brushing my legs. I hear him shake himself, jowls flapping, then he hops onto the bed, taking the warm spot I’ve left behind.
I make my way to the kitchen, hand against the wall, and finally reach a light switch. My eyes squint tight against the glare as I fumble for the door of the fridge.
Another note:
Dear Ciara,
When you make toast, it really helps to use one knife to put the butter on your plate and a separate knife to spread it. That way you don’t get crumbs in the butter.
Love, Shane
I sigh and open the refrigerator in the vain hope that food will be inside. I haven’t had time to grocery shop this week, and sexual frustration made me pig out on the entire box of mac ‘n’ cheese. Maybe a yogurt will be hiding behind the nothing.
A brown paper bag sits on the top shelf, its flap folded over tight. Aww, Shane got me a bagel from that place down the street. I could get used to this new living arrangement.
I snatch the bag, which is heavier than I expected (cream cheese, too? Or better yet, an egg, cheese, and sausage sandwich? Could he be that much of a god?), and switch on my new toaster oven.
Inside the bag, my fingers squish into thick plastic. Ew, I think as I pull it out, they didn’t put the cream cheese into a tub, they just wrapped it in—
“Oh my God!”
The bag of blood drops from my hand. It lands on the stone tile with a pop! Cold red liquid spurts over my feet and shins. A crimson stain spreads across the floor. I let out another shriek.
Feet thud down the hall, and Shane skids to a halt outside the kitchen, Dexter at his heels. “Ciara!” He looks at my legs, spattered in blood. “Are you okay? What happened?”
Bad to the Bone Page 20