Bad to the Bone

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  He looks at her, then at the pick, then at me. “You didn’t.”

  He leaps up, forgetting to hide his supernatural speed. His mom sucks in an astonished gasp. We follow him to the door of the den, which he slides open.

  “Oh my God.”

  Shane moves zombie - slow toward the pure white electric guitar that waits for him in the center of the armchair.

  He kneels before it and reaches out tentatively, as if it will burn him with its beauty. Before he touches it, he turns to me. “You did this?”

  “Yep.” I can’t wait to tell him later that I bought it with my own money and not Elizabeth’s. Of course, living in her apartment for free really loosened my budget.

  Jesse leaps over the corner of the coffee table to get to him. “I set it up. It’s already tuned. Dude, it’s so sweet.”

  “It’s a Gibson SG,” I tell Shane, “just like on our logo. I hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s a miracle.” He spies the cord leading to the amplifier. “You got me an amp, too?”

  “It’s a used one. But the guitar is new, and you know, if you’d rather have a Les Paul, or another brand, we can trade it in. I still have the receipt.”

  “Are you crazy? This is the most amazing gift I’ve ever gotten in my life.” He looks quickly at his mom. “I mean, except all the ones you gave me. Those were just as good.”

  She waves her hand. “Nonsense. Now go on and play, would you? It’s not a museum piece.”

  This time, he only pauses a moment before picking up the guitar. He strokes the curves and the signature SG points at the top of the guitar that remind me of bat wings.

  Then he pulls the strap over his head and flicks on the amp. The power thrums out from the speaker, waiting for his call.

  I hand him the pick. “You dropped this.”

  As he takes it from me, he pulls me closer and gives me a kiss of promise and passion. “Thank you,” he whispers as he lets me go, then caresses my face.

  “You know how to thank me.” I point to the guitar.

  He licks his lips and touches the pick to a couple of the strings, making them hum. “Whoa,” he whispers.

  “Would you get on with it?” his mom says finally.

  I smile. Clearly she’s forgotten that her son can’t be hurried. In response to her urging, he fiddles with the amp some more and adjusts the strap around his shoulders.

  Finally he plucks a few strings, then pauses. All at once he launches into the opening licks of Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way.” The notes stream flawlessly from the speaker. If Regina were here, she’d have her finger in her throat in a fake gag at the music choice. But to me it sounds like angels singing.

  Jesse punches his fist into the air in a gesture that reminds me of Shane’s football victory gloats. When Shane stops, the boy goes, “That was awesome! Let me try.”

  “Jesse, don’t be a hog,” Eileen says, though her face glows at the sight of her son and brother together.

  Shane and Jesse take turns slobbering over the guitar for about an hour, while Ryan and I talk dogs. He wants to be a veterinarian. He shows me the picture of his own two mutts on Mrs. McAllister’s end table.

  Eventually I find myself playing video games with the two boys. They kick my ass in a thousand ways, but it gives Shane some time alone with his mom and sister. The living room next door is quiet, with an occasional feminine sob, drowned out by the sound of my avatar getting his brains splattered.

  It’s the noisiest Christmas ever. Also, the best.

  28

  Do You Hear What I Hear?

  On Christmas Eve, I stand on David’s deck, craning my neck to search the star - studded sky for that exploded comet. But my night vision is seared by the white lights strung over the railing, along with the candles arranged atop the wooden banister. Dexter wanders through the yard, reacquainting himself with his favorite old rabbit holes. His blinking red LED collar makes him look like a walking Christmas tree, or a patrol car.

  The door slides open behind me. “You can’t see the comet anymore,” David says.

  I turn to him. “It moved that fast?”

  “No, it faded away, lost its mass.” He points to the sky above the trees. “It’s still there, you just can’t see it without a telescope now.”

  The thought makes me kind of sad. I wish I’d looked at it more often.

  A raucous cheer comes through the sliding glass door to the dining room. I turn to see Travis and three of the vampire DJs—Spencer, Monroe, and Shane—pointing and laughing at Jim. He downs a shot of whiskey. Shane and Travis nod their heads to Noah’s reggae rhythms from the stereo. Regina’s also at the station, ready to take over at midnight.

  “They’re still playing quarters?” I ask David.

  “Chase quarters. Two people have the cups, one on each side of the table. When you bounce the quarter into the cup, you pass it to your right. If you’ve still got your cup when the other one catches up to you, you have to drink.”

  “Add a sleigh ride and caroling, and you’ve got a regular Norman Rockwell Christmas.”

  “At least we can safely share this holiday with them, unlike Thanksgiving.”

  I twist my mind away from the T - Day ordeal. It’s still hard to look at Jim, even though he’s kept his eyes, mouth, and hands to himself since that day.

  “This must be their favorite time of year. Long nights, short days.”

  David nods and rubs his hands together to warm them. “For vampires, winter is summer, the time when they have the most freedom. The sun turns everything backwards.”

  I reach in my coat pocket, wincing as my right arm gets used to being out of the sling. “Mrs. McAllister gave me this last night when he wasn’t looking.” I hand David an old photo of Shane. It shows a skinny kid with a battered secondhand guitar strapped over his shoulder. “From the summer of ‘86, when he was between high school and college.”

  “Wow. I was only twelve.”

  “I was three.” I take back the photo. “You know what makes this shot so beautiful? The sunlight reflecting off his hair. I’ve never seen that, and I never will.”

  David gives me a grim smile, then reaches inside his jacket and pulls out his wallet.

  He hands me a worn photo of Elizabeth, the corners bent and the back date - stamped July 1997. She’s standing on a brick sidewalk in front of a boat, maybe at Baltimore’s Inner Harbor or the Annapolis waterfront. Tanned and grinning, blond hair streaming in the sun and breeze, she blows a kiss to the person behind the camera.

  David shifts his feet. “Her twenty - seventh birthday.”

  I stare at the picture, trying to see the hard, cold Elizabeth I knew. This woman disappeared into her.

  David retrieves the photo from my hand. “They say winter solstice is the time when light returns to the world to conquer darkness, because the days start to lengthen again. It’s supposed to be a time of hope and renewal.”

  He offers the photo to one of the candles, lighting the top left corner.

  “David, what are you doing?”

  “Renewing.” He holds up the burning photo. We watch Elizabeth’s face blacken and curl. When the fire nears his fingertips, he sets the photo in the ashtray full of the vampires’ cigarette butts. A cold breeze whisks the last black shred up into the sky, where clouds are creeping in to blot the stars. The air suddenly smells like snow.

  “What brought that on?” I ask him.

  He taps the toes of one shoe against the wooden railing’s vertical slats. “When you were held hostage at the Fortress, I was really worried about you. I wanted to charge in there myself, guns a - blazin’, and carry you out.”

  I shift away from him a little, wondering where this is leading.

  “But then I realized,” he continues, “that my thoughts were not along the lines of ‘If Ciara survives, I’ll tell her how I feel, because life’s too short.’ “

  “Huh?”

  “I was scared for you as a friend, and nothing more. That’
s when I knew I was over Elizabeth, when I was over you.”

  Dexter joins us on the deck, his yard - puttering project complete. He leans against my leg, and I commence ear scritchies, grateful for a break from the awkward moment.

  “Any word on your father?” David asks me.

  “No.” I can’t add anything further without revealing the intensity of my fear and anger.

  “Do you miss your family at Christmas?”

  “I miss Jesus.” I shake my head. “Not Judge Jesus, separating the sheep from the goats. I miss Little Kid Jesus, the one who understands everything and loves everyone. Like Santa Claus, kind of, except that everybody’s on the Nice List, or could be, if they just had faith.” I scratch under Dexter’s collar, making the dog thump his foot against the deck in joy. “I know he’s just a stand - in for my lost innocence or some shit like that, and that’s what I really miss. The ability to believe in my parents.”

  “Just because they lied for a living doesn’t mean they never told the truth. You believe they love you, right?”

  “They’re good at faking emotions.”

  “But I saw the way your dad was with you. He wasn’t faking.”

  “You didn’t see that video from the Fortress. His fear looked so real, I could feel it in my gut.” My stomach tightens at the memory. “But he’s not a prisoner, he’s an accomplice, to the people who would’ve killed me, the people who’d love to kill my friends.”

  David adjusts the string of lights on the wooden railing. “How do you know he’s an accomplice?”

  “Lanham said there was evidence against his bodyguard, who let him escape so he could go join the Fortress.”

  “Why do you believe Colonel Lanham and not your dad?”

  “Because . . .” I struggle to get out a coherent thought amid the rising queasiness. What if I’m wrong? What if my father really is in danger? “It makes sense. All the pieces fit together.”

  “Nice and neat. Plus it confirms what you want to believe about your dad. Then you can tell yourself you don’t miss him on Christmas Eve.”

  I have to laugh, since the alternatives are crying or puking. “Between you and Lori and Shane, I must be the openest book on the shelf.”

  “Yeah, for a con artist, you’re pretty transparent.”

  “Only to a few.” I give Dexter a light shove with my knee. “Mommy’s hands are tired, and Uncle David wants to pet you.”

  The dog shifts in front of David and sits on his feet.

  “I’m not sad this Christmas,” I assert. “It’s nice just being with friends.” I gesture to the vampires through the door. “No drama whatsoever.”

  The DJs and Travis raise their glasses in a collective toast I can’t hear. They laugh and start to drink.

  Then they pause before the glasses touch their lips. As one, the five vampires turn to stare at the radio.

  “I have a bad feeling about this.” David strides for the door, me and Dexter on his heels.

  Inside the dining room, no sound comes from the speakers except a quiet thup . . . thup . . . thup.

  “What’s that noise?” I ask them.

  Spencer looks at me. “It’s the needle hitting a record’s center label.”

  “I’ve never heard that before.”

  “Darlin’,” he says, “you’re not supposed to hear that.”

  David picks up the phone. “I’ll call the studio. Shane, try to reach Regina at the station apartment. If something’s happened to Noah, she can take over.”

  The rest of us watch the two men press the phones to their ears. No one’s picking up.

  The thup . . . thup . . . thup . . . gets louder. It stops for a moment, followed by the shriek of a needle across vinyl.

  We all cry out in pain at the high - pitched noise. Dexter barks at the stereo.

  Which is now silent as death.

  The station’s parking lot is empty when we arrive. As the oldest, strongest vampires, Spencer and Monroe approach the door first. I hang back with Dexter, who sniffs the wind, the hair along his spine erect. The first flakes of snow blot his smooth black fur.

  Spencer and Monroe open the door cautiously and step inside. In a moment, they beckon the rest of us—Shane, Jim, Travis, me, Dexter, and David.

  The main office looks untouched. Hearing cries of dismay from the lounge below, David and I follow the vampires down the stairs.

  In the dim light of the fallen halogen lamp, the lounge looks like it was hit by a combination of a tornado and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The shelves and credenza lie on their sides. Broken glass crunches under my feet. Splashes of blood accent the wall, and bloody footsteps cover the shabby rug leading to the hallway and the back door.

  Spencer, Monroe, and Jim are gathered around something on the floor in the center of the room. Travis paces, holds his head, and moans the words “oh God” over and over.

  David sets the lamp upright, and suddenly I see what lies at the center of the silent chaos.

  Noah, on his back amid chunks of the shattered table, his limbs twisted around the piece of furniture like he’s clutching it to keep from drowning.

  Dexter yanks me forward, and now I see a long thin shard of wood protruding from Noah’s chest. A piece of the broken table? No, it’s too thin and smooth and perfect.

  An arrow from a crossbow.

  “No . . . ‘‘ I let go of Dexter and kneel at Noah’s feet. “He never hurt anyone.” That you know of, says a small voice inside me. “How could they do this?”

  Spencer pulls back Noah’s lid and examines his eye. “He’s unconscious but alive, at least until we pull that arrow out.” He rubs his own face. “Son of a bitch, I never thought it’d be him.”

  “Filthy fuckers,” Jim growls. “I can’t wait to eat their brains, and I don’t even eat brains.”

  Shane lurches out of the hallway. “Regina’s gone. There’s a whole body’s worth of human blood on the studio walls.”

  “At least we know Regina’s not dead,” David says to Shane. “You would have felt it.”

  “Right.” Shane rubs his chest, as if anticipating the sudden tightening, ripping feeling that would come at the moment of his maker’s demise.

  Travis moans again. “You don’t ever want to feel that. It’s like ten heart attacks piled on top of each other.” He turns to David. “What are we gonna do?”

  “First,” Spencer says, “we have to pull this out.” His fingers slide over Noah’s chest, flanking the arrow. “We have to let him go.”

  My own heart feels punctured. I clutch Noah’s sneaker, rubbing my thumb over the worn - out sole.

  “I’ll do it.” Monroe kneels at Noah’s side, across from Spencer. “Everyone come and say good - bye.”

  As his hands tighten on the arrow’s shaft, the others gather around—Shane on my left next to Spencer, David and Travis on my right beside Monroe, and Jim at Noah’s head. Everyone lays a hand on our friend’s body. Even Dexter squeezes between Jim and Spencer to lick Noah’s face.

  Monroe whispers a prayer, and I close my eyes, hoping there’s a place beyond that accepts vampires—at least the good ones like Noah.

  “Ready?” Monroe whispers.

  I want to tell him no, because I’m not ready to watch our friend’s body turn in upon itself, inch by inch of tearing skin, splintering bone, oozing flesh.

  Tears spring from my eyes and stream down my cheeks. I don’t wipe them away but let them plop onto the cuffs of Noah’s jeans.

  Monroe says, “Good - bye.”

  He yanks out the arrow. Noah’s body lifts and flops back to the floor. Blood seeps in a circle from the wound. I wait for it to flow backward, bringing everything with it that used to be Noah.

  The bleeding stops. We hold our breaths.

  Noah’s eyes open, staring into the void, watching the approach of his second and final death.

  Then he blinks. His gaze wanders until it settles on Monroe. “What’s happening?”

  I squeeze his ankle. “No
ah, they shot you. You were hit in the heart.”

  He brushes his hand over his shirt and thumbs the hole. “They missed.”

  Spencer unbuttons Noah’s knit shirt. No wound remains under the layer of darkening, drying blood. “I’ll be damned. But why were you out cold?”

  “The pain.” Noah eases himself to sit up, wincing. “They shot me, then one of them twisted the arrow. Regina got him.”

  I look through the open door to the hallway. Half of the studio’s glass window is opaque red, like it’s been power -washed with blood. My stomach tilts, even as my heart races with relief at Noah’s continued unlife.

  “Where’s Regina now?” David asks him.

  “They took her. One of them wanted to pull that out.” He looks at the arrow in Monroe’s hand. “The other say to let me suffer for all the pain I cause. ‘Let him pull it out himself,’ they say. Then I fainted.” He rubs his face in what looks like embarrassment, then suddenly notices Shane. “You’re okay. So she’s not dead yet.”

  “Not ever,” Shane says, “if I can help it.”

  “Shh!” Jim points to Dexter, who’s staring at the door at the bottom of the stairs, ears straight up and pricked forward. Then Jim jerks his chin. “I just heard it, too. Engine.”

  The other vampires listen, then start at a sudden noise I can’t hear. Monroe creeps to the lounge door on stealthy feet. A few moments pass, then he holds up two fingers, which I guess signals the number of people upstairs.

  Silent as snakes, the rest of the vampires move toward the door. I grab Dexter’s leash, in case it’s someone we don’t want to kill.

  Footsteps scurry down the stairs, and Spencer whips open the door.

  A woman’s voice shouts. “Don’t hurt us! We’re on your side.”

  Luann?

  “Wait, I know her.” I push through the vampires at the bottom of the stairs. “She was at the—”

  The word “Fortress” dies on my lips when I see who’s standing beside Luann, dressed in black like her.

  “Hello, pumpkin.” My father raises his arms halfway, then lets them drop to his side. “Merry Christmas?”

  A deep growl shakes my body, and for a moment I think it’s my own throat making the noise. Then I realize it’s Dexter, at the other end of the taut leash. His snarling muzzle is pointing right at our intruders, ready to deploy his inch - long fangs at my command.